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MY ROSES. 






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Children with the Poets. 12mo. Cloth . . $1 60 


Fine Edition, tinted Paper, Cloth, Bevelled Boards, gilt 
top . . . . . . . . 2 00 

Fine Edition, tinted Paper, Cloth, Bevelled Boards, gilt 
edges . . . . . . . . 2 25 

Fine Edition, tinted Paper, super Turkey antique, Rox- 
burghe . . . . . • . , 4 60 

Silver Threads. 12mo. Cloth . . ‘ , , 1 60 

Westbrook Parsonage. 12mo. Cloth . , 1 50 


Jaok and Florie ; or, The Pigeons’ Wedding. With 

eight handsome Illustrations. Quarto. 

Fancy paper cover. Plain plates, . . , .25 cts. 

Do. do. Colored Plates, , , .60 cts. 

Cloth gilt side, Colored Plates, . . . 76 cts. 

Cloth, gilt ,8ide and edge. Colored Plates, Bevelled 
Boards, 1 00 


Little Mary and the Fairy. With eight Handsome 
Illustrations. Quarto. 

Fancy paper cover. Plain plates, . . . .25 cts. 

Do. do. Colored Plates, . . .60 cts. 

Cloth, gilt sides. Colored Plates, . . . .75 cts. 

Cloth, bevelled boards, gilt edge. Colored Plates, . 1 00 

Maude and Miriam ; or, the Fair Crusader. 12mo. 

Cloth, 1 60 


The above are for sale by Booksellers generally ; or, will be sent 
by mail, postage paid, on receipt of price, by 

CLAXTON, KEMSEN & HAFPELPINGEE, 

FUBJLISHEItS, 

819 and 821 Market St., 


j 


PHILADELPHIA. 


7 ^ a / O' 


ROSES: 


MY 

/ 

THE ROMANCE OF A JUNE DAY. 




\ 


BY 

CS 




L. VIEGINIA^ FRENCH. 

»k 


“ There are fatal days, indeed, 

In which the fibrous years have taken root 
So deeply, that they quiver to their tops 
Whene’er you stir the dust of such a day.” 

Mrs. Browning. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON, KEMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 
Nos. 819 & 821 Market Street. 

1872 . 




i 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress^ at Washington. 


STEREOTTPED BT J. FAQAN A SON, PHILADELPHIA. 


TO 


“IDA RAYMOND,” 

OF MOBILE, ALA., 

^hi§ ^obnu ^exlwateH. 

SHE WHO STANDS AMONG US LIKE — 

A radiant Flora 

Crowning all she loves with bays ; 
Bringing, like some fair Aurora, 
Morning to our darkest ways. 

Eyes of June — serene and tender, 
Lighting up the wood and wold ; 

Soul of June — whose sunset splendor 
Turns the clouds of Life to gold; 
Brow of June — where Love reposes. 
And its sunshine fadeth never ; 

Heart of June — whose ‘summer roses 
Bud, and blush, and bloom forever / 


Forest Home, 1871. 








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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER pace 

I. — The Mysterious Picture 13 

II. — Days of June 26 

III. — On the “Shell Road” . . . ' . . .38 

IV. — Pro et Con 50 

V. — The “Maison des Bijoux” 61 

VI. — In Carrollton Gardens ..... 73 

VII. — The Place d’Armes 89 

VIII. — Completely Mystified 106 

IX. — In the Old Cathedral 118 

X. — La Belle Marguerite .* . . . • .133 

XI. — Searching for Secrets 148 

XII. — “Betrayed.” 159 

XIII. — In the Toils 167 

XIV. — At Bay 179 

XV. — The Cobra Strikes 196 

XVI. — “Open Sesame!” 210 

XVII. — The Night-watch 228 

XVIII. — Telle Vie Telle Mort 245 

XIX. — Death 254 

XX. — Finale 267 

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4 


MY ROSES 


CHAPTER I, 


THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE, 


What face is that ? 


What a face, what a look, what a likeness ! Full on mine 
The sudden blow of it came down, till all 
My blood swam, my eyes dazzled. 

It was as if a meditative man 
Were dreaming out a summer afternoon, 

And watching gnats afloat upon a pond. 

When something floats up suddenly — out there — 

Turns over : a dead face, known once alive — 

So old, so new ! It would be dreadful now 
To lose the sight, and keep the doubt of this — 

It plunges — ha! I’ve lost it — 


E. B. Browning. 



J-i- This was the low-breathed exclamation which broke 
up from my heart like a sob, as my eye glanced over 
the collection ; and then I said suddenly, without, for a 
moment, removing my fascinated gaze from the picture, 
“ Sigismond ! ” In an instant he stood by my side — the 
single word ‘‘Ang^Hqiie / ” stole from his half-parted lips 
as I laid my forefinger on the little portrait — and then we 
both stood there together, gazing, as if spell-bound, upon 
its rare and radiant loveliness. 

It was — let me remember — yes, I am quite sure it was 
on Tuesday morning — the morning of the first of June, 
1852, that we stood there together, Sigismond Sauvoll^e 


2 


18 


14 


MY ROSES. 


and I — in the daguerrean gallery of Monsieur Moisinett, 
corner of Camp and Canal streets, New Orleans — both 
gazing intently upon a little picture, which, framed with 
some twenty-five or thirty others, hung upon the front side 
of the apartment, between two tall uncurtained windows. 

Perhaps the reason I remember the day so accurately 
is, because it was my birthday ; on that first of June I com- 
pleted my twentieth year, and it had been arranged be- 
tween us (that is, Sigismond and myself) that we should 
be married on that day. But my father objected seriously 
— said he could not think of appointing that day for a 
bridal — and, to please him, we had postponed our marriage 
for one month. My fiance had insisted upon having a 
little “ sun-picture ” of myself, small enough to fit into a 
diamond -circled locket which had once belonged to his 
mother ; and when I suggested that a painting on ivory 
would be more suitable, he answered that he could not 
wait for such a one then — that since we could not be 
married until July, he would be obliged to leave home in 
a few days for a “ run up the Coast ” on urgent business, 
and he must have some tangible shadow of his betrothed 
to accompany him. He furthermore insisted that I should 
drive with him that very morning to Monsieur Moisinett’s 
gallery, and give him at least a semblance of myself as a 
birthday gift, since he had so ardently hoped I wmuld have 
given him the original on that day. It would, he said, 
help to soften his keen disappointment; and I — well, in 
brief, I went with him. I presume any lady similarly 
circumstanced would have done the same. 

The operator desired me to sit several times, not succeed- 
ing to his own satisfaction ; and when he carried the plates 
to an inner apartment for manipulation, I sat there chat- 
ting with Sigismond, who occupied the sofa, commenting 
upon different poses which I assumed ; or, growing restless 


MY ROSES. 


15 


and impatient with waiting, (as is my nature,) I paced to and 
fro, up and down the long apartment, pausing a moment 
before the tall mirror to toss up my short curls, or glancing 
at the innumerable pictures that hung about the walls. At 
last, as I was passing carelessly down the front side, this 
picturcy from the centre of a score of others, struck up into 
my eyes ; and, like a lightning flash, daguerreotyped itself 
upon my brain for evermore ! It was as if, when one is 
passing thoughtlessly over a path of common pebbles, a 
weirdly brilliant opal flashes up into his dazzled eyes. As 
my glance caught this face, I started visibly; it went 
piercing, quivering, thrilling through me like a crystal 
dart — that wondrous, indefinable something about it — I 
knew not what — thrilled down into my very heart, broke 
there, and there remained ! “ Heavens w'hat a face ! ’’ I 

breathed — then for a moment seemed to gasp for breath, 
and then found voice to say, as if struck with sudden pain 
— “ Sigismond ! ” He sprang at once to my side ; and as I 
pointed to the little portrait, his eye fell upon it : one word 
only escaped his lips, and we both stood there gazing — 
we scarce knew why — transfixed and fascinated. Neither 
spoke again, but my hand clasped his, half unconsciously. 
I felt as though I were losing my hold upon all the Present, 
vaguely wandering through some dim, bewildering chaos; 
and I could scarce keep down that strange prompting to 
call aloud — with the “shriek of desperate creatures call- 
ing on the dead,” — to the unknown spirit which looked 
out at me from the shadow on that silver plate. It was 
but a little picture — some three inches by four, per- 
haps — but the face, the face! it burnt itself in upon my 
brain for an everlasting memory. The shadows of Time 
cannot dim it ; the cycles of Eternity cannot fade. And 
ah ! what a sweet, sweet face it was. The semblance of 
a young woman ; lovelier far than any I had ever met 
outside of day-dreams. It was not sad ; it was not joyous; 


16 


MY ROSES. 


it was not splendid : only rich, and pure, and holy-like, in 
its entrancing beauty ; with a soft yet penetrating sweet- 
ness, like the glance of a sinless angel when he beholds the 
sorrows of earth ; an expression which was music, and 
which sank into your very soul, as though it were the far- 
away chiming of crystal bells. There was a memory in 
the face, too, which confused and bewildered, while it fas- 
cinated me — how, why, or what, I could not divine. It 
grew upon me every moment — that strange, indefinable, 
and intangible something , that seemed to mock me as 
familiar, and, when I strove to grasp it,- faded away into 
the features of an utter stranger. I must have seen that 
face before — yet, no — that could not be ; had I once met 
it living, face to face, I could never have forgotten it. 
And then, as I looked again, I said in my heart, “ I know 
you, I have seen you ; ” but when, and where ? Is this a 
remembrance of some former existence ? a recollection of 
some other picture ? a memory of some one I have loved 
and lost ? a waif from the painted pageantry of dreams ? 
Who, and what are you? Why should you strike down at 
once into my heart, and leave there forever your beautiful 
and bewildering shadow ? Why should your subtle spirit 
sink thus into my soul ; leaving it to bear eternally, like 
the dove, the burden of a melodious trouble ? And thus 
I stood there, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps half an hour, 
(to me it seemed long years and ages,) taxing myself and 
it ; eager, earnest, searching — and for what ? Grasping 
after that mocking somethmg; striving to gather it up from 
the chaos of my brain, as one ofttimes strives to gather 
and give voice to some long-forgotten, or only half-learned 
melody. It seemed an ignis-fatuus, that flamed at times 
upon the fair brow, or nestled in the clustering hair, or 
played about the exquisite lips ; and when I, as it were, put 
forth my whole soul to grasp it, it fled back into nothing- 


MY EOSES. 


17 


ness, or leaped off into those deep eyes that never struck 
off my gaze from their surface ; but, utterly unfathomable, 
ever tempted me to look down, down into depth within 
depth of their darkness and mystery. How vainly I strug- 
gled to grasp this subtle something which so tantalized me 
— vainly 

“As strives the blasted tree to clasp the fleeting wind.” 

And it was also vainly that I said to myself. Why this 
emotion ? Why should my heart be shaken thus ? Whence 
comes this foolish fancy? Fie, fie, Henriette de Haute- 
rive, it has often been your pleasure to boast that when 
you were born, “ nerves ” were not dla mode. How’s this? 
unnerved by a simple little picture ? A very pretty girl it 
is true ; but I trust you fear no rivals, mademoiselle ! And 
I said to my heart. Stop now this foolish aching; this silly 
questioning; this idle curiosity. I will be myself — see 
how composed I can be ! 

M’ amour ” whispered my companion, suddenly, as he 
seized my hand, still raised to the picture, and his eye fell 
upon mine, that moment lifted to his, “ I think I’ve found 
it. It reminds me of yourself I ” Why, I cannot divine, 
but a shock like the touch of an electric wire thrilled 
through my whole frame, and the hot blood swept up into 
my face in a flood ; then this passed, the blood retreated to 
ray heart, I half shuddered, as though an icy wind had 
blown over me, and my eyes fell. “Found it,” had he? 
then he too had been searching for that something — was it 
the same something that so eluded my eager grasp? No! 
he had not “ found it ; ” there was certainly no sort of 
resemblance to me in that haunting picture. No, no ! for 
I was tall and dark, and this was fair — ah ! so fair. 

“ Once more, mademoiselle, if you please,” said the art- 
ist, bowing, as he again adjusted his camera; “that is, if 
mademoiselle is not already ennuy^e.’* 


18 


MY ROSES. 


“ Not at all, monsieur,” I said, absently, as I threw my- 
self into the chair, and stared with far-searching, burning 
eyes into the camera, as though it had held some hidden 
secret crouching and cowering there. 

“ Ah ! this will be very good, tout de bony* muttered the 
man, as he took out the plate once more, and bowed, as 
usual, to signify that I was released for the time being. 

“ Sigismond, mon ami,” I said. 

“ Well, ma chore he inquired. 

“I thought I saw Monsieur Moisinett enter that room just 
now, through the opposite door; pray go in, and inquire of 
him if this picture has an original, or if it is only a fancy 
piece. And if it has an original, ask who she may be — 
will you ? ” 

“Certainly, if you desire it, ma belle; but I have no 
(ioubt he will think the inquiry an impertinent one.” 

“ No, he will not, I ’m certain ; why should he ? Why 
should he hang this picture here, in such a conspicuous 
position too, if he did not expect to answer to every one 
who sees it, who, and what, and where she is? No one 
with any appreciation of beauty can help asking such 
questions. It can’t be one of our own city belles — I know 
them all ‘ by heart.’ Can it be some lovely Louisianian 
from the ‘ Coast,’ or one of those bewitching Kentuckians 
who visit the ‘ Crescent ’ during the winter ? It is more 
the type of the Baltimore beauty — but oh! how surpass- 
ing all — ” 

“ It may be some charming Habanese — who know'S ? ” 
suggested he, smiling, and interrupting my half soliloquy. 

“ Hasten then with your inquiries, senor ; make her out 
a compatriot, if you can ; ” and again I turned to study 
the picture, while Sigismond passed into the other apart- 
ment in search of information for me. 

At the first sound of his returning footstep I started, 


MY ROSES. 


19 


and, with a great throb at my heart, said, “ Well? ” And 
just then I became aware that a change had passed upon 
his countenance during the few moments of his absence. 
He had left me with a smile on his fine, frank face ; now 
it wore an expression of mingled pain and disappointment. 
“ It is not ‘ well ! ’ ” he said, in a low tone. “ Ah ! mignonne, 
how shall I tell you ? ” 

“ It is merely a fancy piece, then ? How absurd in me 
to waste so much sentiment over some artist’s ideal,” I said, 
in real discomfiture. 

“ Alas, no — would it were ! ” he replied. 

“*No?’ and ‘would it were?’ What mean you, mon 
amif I cannot understand you at all. This picture here 
is — ” 

“ Is a woman’s advertisement of her own beauty ! ” he 
said, sharply and scornfully. 

“ What? — what can you mean?” I asked the ques- 
tion slowly, never taking my eyes from his ; for I confess 
I thought the man had lost his senses utterly. 

“ Must 1 tell you, Henriette ? ” 

“ ‘ 3fust you tell me ? ’ ” I repeated, impatiently. 
“ Speak I What is it you have to tell me ? This trifling is 
unworthy both of you and me. Am I a child, to be thus — ” 

“No, not a child,” he said, calmly; “ but a woman — a 
high-minded, pure-hearted, noble woman. And because 
you are all this, I will tell you, though I know it will 
grieve you, my Henriette. That picture is not a fancy 
piece; its original lives in this city — a beautiful woman, 
but a fallen one — a woman mal-fam^e^ 

“ God of mercy ! it cannot be ! ” I cried. Instantly the 
hot blood of mingled shame and indignation rushed like a 
torrent up to cheek and brow. I felt myself burning with 
shame, and confusion, and anger. I felt almost as though 
tliat insulting epithet had been hissed abroad of me ! I 


20 


MY ROSES. 


know that my eyes shot forth their lightnings ; for I felt 
at that moment as if personally defamed. I felt that, 
much as I loved him, I could have felled to the earth 
the man who dared utter to me that word of shame. Si- 
gismond divined my thought ; ah ! how well he knew me, 
proud and passionate creature that I was ! for he came 
nearer, and taking my hand gently, softly said, M' amour! 
remember — we are talking now of a total stranger.” 

Of course — of course such words could never be coupled 
with me, or mine. They rose up in a long array before my 
“mind’s eye” — that noble line of stainless dames — my 
mother’s ancestry. All of them Honor’s own — every one 
of them sane women. No one dare so much as breathe 
upon the stainless, shining steel of their fair fame, much 
less to cast thereon one drop of blood, or tears, to blot the 
bright escutcheon. Far above and beyond the sullying 
breath of the defamer stood the ladies of my honored line. 
True enough, this was a “total stranger.” Why should 
my soul within me rise up resolutely to do battle for a 
woman who was nothing to me ? whom I had never seen, 
never even heard of until that hour ? A woman who was 
nothing to me ; still, like myself, a woman. Younger than 
I, perhaps, and yet, already known as a “ woman maU 
famee.” Well, how many of them have worn it upon 
their hearts and brows for years and years — this brand of 
an unholy life; this “mark of the Beast in their fore- 
heads ” ? How many of them wear the “ scarlet letter',’.’ 
and writhe under it, and in mute anguish shrink away into 
the world’s “ dark places ” ! how many of them bear the 
fiery cipher -stain upon bold, unblushing foreheads, sit- 
ting regally upon transient thrones, and “glorying in their 
shame ” ? I looked up again at the picture. There was 
no brand upon that brow, polished and rounded like a 
child’s ; the deep eyes looked lovingly into mine, and the 


MY ROSES. 


21 


sweet lips seemed curving into a soft smile of recognition. 
Involuntarily I was swept back into the former feeling of 
nearness to this woman ; hot tears sprang into my eyes, and 
I exclaimed, impulsively : “ Oh ! Sigismond, it is impossible ! 
There is some great mistake. Perhaps they have not un- 
derstood which picture you mean ; you may have desig- 
nated the wrong one. Please go again, and say it is the 
centre portrait — the lovely creature with short, clustering 
curls, and unfathomable eyes. You did not say the one in 
the centre, Sigismond ; I am sure they mistook your mean- 
ing. Won’t you ask once more, to gratify me, and — -and 
— not to wrong Aer, whoever she may be ? For I am con- 
fident we do wrong her by these suspicions. I pray you, 
mon eher ami, do this for me ? ” 

With a shadow on his face he left me — was gone longer 
than before — and the shadow had deepened when he came 
again. He passed me, walking straight up to the portraits, 
examined them attentively for some moments, then came 
and led me up to them also, gently and kindly. 

“ This is the right one, Henriette,” he said, designating 
the central picture, and speaking in a low, sad tone, almost 
as if he might have felt a brother’s sorrow for the lost. 

“ And then, do you see this, ma cMre f ” he continued, 
pointing to another oval which hung directly below the 
picture; “this is a second Circe: the* two are friends, I 
am told, and constant companions. It is true — too true, 
Henriette.” 

My eyes fell upon the portrait he pointed out. It was 
that of a young woman ; a dark, yet flashing beauty, full 
of an exultant and voluptuous vitality ; with a half-smile 
of scorn upon the curved lips, and a defiant challenge to 
all the world in her large, bold, black eyes. She was 
dressed in the extreme of fashion, and the white velvet hat 
and cloak she wore did not strike you as at all bizarre, so 


22 


MY EOSES. 


fittingly and well did they harmonize with her splendid 
beauty. This woman bore the brand. I saw in a moment 
the “ mark of the Beast ” — not on the fair forehead, or on 
the smoothly rounded cheek, but the signet of the “ scarlet 
letter” had been pressed upon the full lips, and the fiery 
cipher-stain glowed within those large and lustrous eyes. 
Alas ! for her. Alas ! too, for me — for my faith in the 
angelic face that hung above her was shaken rudely ; and 
as I tottered to the nearest chair, great waves of deathly 
pain swept over me, such as we feel when the very citadel 
of life is stormed by mortal anguish. Chaos was coming 
upon me again ; I felt as though my soul was being drag- 
ged down, down, into some unknown abyss — some “lower 
deep,” the utter darkness and horror of which no earthly 
language can express. Again, feeling that I was losing 
my hold upon consciousness, I put forth my hand blindly, 
seeking for Sigismond. It was caught, and I heard his 
voice, as if speaking to me through an immense distance : 
“ M’ amour ! what is it ? Good God ! how pale she is ! 
Speak to me, mignonne. Why are you so strangely shaken? 
Look at me, Henriette!” I struggled to obey him, to 
answer his call, and succeeded. I came up (as it seemed 
to me) out of a “ horror of great darkness ” — back to 
myself, and back to him. We had no time for words, how- 
ever, for at that moment the operator entered, holding in 
his hand my last picture, already finished, and set in its 
diamond-circled frame. He gave it to Sigismond ; for I, 
to conceal my changed countenance, had immediately risen 
and turned away to the mirror, busying myself in a great 
deal of unnecessary arrangement of my hat and mantle. 
They stood behind me, and I watched them, reflected in the 
broad mirror. A shade passed over the fine face of Sigis- 
mond, as he gazed upon the new “ sun-picture,” 


“Done by process indistinguishable,' 


MY ROSES. 


23 


which he had so earnestly desired. A shade, I thought, 
which betokened disappointment. 

“ It is very good, monsieur, is it not ? Fine shade ; per- 
fect position : it has the intense — what you call ? Ah ! ’t is 
trls hieUj monsieur,” remarked the artist. 

I threw down my veil ove^ a pallid face, and turned 
toward them. Sigismond dropped it by the chain into my 
hand. It was, indeed, an “intense” affair, as the young 
Frenchman had remarked. Highly wrought emotion 
crowned every lineament : it seemed to breathe and glow ; 
and the great dark eyes pierced you through and through. 
It scarcely seemed a woman’s face at all, with its “ intense” 
expression, and short curling hair; and but for the un- 
covered throat and shoulder, with a bit of lace drapery 
which still remained above the setting, it might have 
passed for some proud, imperious boy of eighteen tropic 
summers, looking out from the present into a clouded 
future, and striving to read there the hidden secrets of his 
own destiny. And all this unsexing of myself came of 
my becoming excited over the picture of a “ total stranger ; ” 
allowing incomprehensible impressions to run away with 
my sober senses, and, when I sat the last time, peering and 
poring into that common camera as though it held some 
dark and direful secret I The face did not wear the usual 
womanly expression of the woman he loved ; therefore I was 
not surprised that Sigismond was somewhat dissatisfied with 
his new possession. 

“ This is not the ‘ every day ’ face of ‘ L’ame de joie’ ” 
he said, in a low voice, as he looked at it over my shoulder. 
“ But I will keep it, nevertheless, since there is no time to 
take another. You are not well to-day, and I have wearied 
you already. Shall we go ? ” 

“ Presently,” I replied. 

“ Thank you — pardonnez, je vous prie — I will supply 


24 


^lY ROSES. 


the change in a moment,” said the operator, as M. Sau- 
voll4e handed him a gold coin, and he left the room. In- 
stantly I turned, and, springing forward to the mysterious 
portrait, held up my own in its frame of brilliants, close 
beside it. 

“ There is no resemblance between them — not the faint- 
est shadow of a likeness. My Henriette, forgive me that 
I said this strange picture reminded me of you. It was 
simply some passing shade ; it exists not now. See how 
very different they are — quite as different as the originals! ” 
exclaimed Sigismond, hurriedly, as he came forward and 
attempted to draw away my hand. “ Do not thus compare 
yourself with one who — indeed you must not do it; it 
pains me, Henriette ; ” and, just then, as with a gentle 
but determined force, he attempted to take it from my 
hand, and it turned into a new light, I thought I caught 
the shadow of that indefinable something in both pictures, 
though so unlike ; and, dropping it from a nerveless hand, 
ere Sigismond could recover it, it had fallen to the 
floor. 

“ Let us go,” I said, as my companion stooped to regain 
it ; and then, as he stepped back at the voice of the artist, 
who had now returned, I paused a moment to take one 
farewell look at the pure, angelic face before me, and the 
splendor of its evil genius below. Both so beautiful, yet 
so wholly unlike — one a seraph with the lingering light 
of Paradise still upon her brow, and the other bearing, even 
amid its beauty, 

“ A brand which all the pomp and pride 
Of a fallen spirit cannot hide.” 

And, Heaven be praised ! as I looked upon these pictures 
and noted the contrast, my woman’s faith in woman came 
back to me. It was impossible for me to look upon the 


MY ROSES. 


25 


face of that first woman and believe it the semblance of a 
fallen angel. I simply would not believe it; for if ever 
Deus fecit was written upon human brow, it was unmis- 
takably stamped upon this pure tablet before me. And my 
heart cried out, in its strong emotion : “ Guilty f fallen ? 
Great God of all innocence and truth, it cannot — must not 

SHALL NOT be ! ” 

3 


CHAPTER 11. 


DAYS OF JUNE. 


The buoyant air 

Doth quiver with the melodies it holds 
As thrills the bosom of the morning cloud; 

The lark is floating in ; and then above 
And over all a sky like heaven’s own smile, 

In its unsullied brightness ! 

Thou art beside me, with thy tresses like 
The golden flash of waters; with thy cheek 
‘ Of pearly roses; and thine eye where heaven 

Burns in its own blue lustre. 

Life with us 

Is in its blushing morning. L. V. F. 

J UNE, my birtli-month, has ever been my special beati- 
tude — to me “the month of all months in the year.” 
Crowned with a full maturity, yet having lost none of the 
freshness of youth, it is the very perfection of beauty. A 
moonlit midnight in the “leafy month of June ” — surely 
earth has no other hour which shall dare assume to be its 
peer. Some one has beautifully said, “About all perfect 
things there lingers a voluptuous atmosphere.” Therefore, 
from the full, sensuous beauty which breathes and glows 
everywhere around us at this season, do we argue that 
June is the perfection and poetry of the year. It has all 
the blooming richness of July, without those fervid heats 
and brazen skies ; and it possesses all the dewy freshness 
of “ merrie, merrie May,” without any coquettish pouting 
under a mist, or veiling of smiles with a chilly rain-cloud. 

26 


MY ROSES. 


27 


Its sunshine is the “ golden mean which vivifies ; its 
breezes are the “ soft breathings of the south,” which re- 
fresh and vitalize ; its cloud-shadows glide along the sky- 
like air-ships with burnished keel and snowy sail ; and 
even its passing showers are the very ne plus ultra of 
their species, laden wdth earth’s fertility and crowned with 
‘‘ heaven’s aerial bow.” 

Ay, my birth-month had always been to me a beati- 
tude. Willis, in his poetical way, has somewhere said, 
that “ the wheel of the year, in its annual revolution, dips 
once into the atmosphere of Paradise, and that bright 
baptism takes place in June.” I quite loved the “ poet of 
society ” for saying so. I quite honored him, in that his 
intercourse with the world had not obliterated his love of 
Nature, though I half suspect that his appreciation of June 
days, combining the regal beauty of summer with the joy- 
ousness of spring, bore a strong likeness to his appreciation 
of some lovely ‘‘Lady Jane” — some lovable woman bear- 
ing into her beautiful maturity the gladness and guileless- 
ness of her girlhood. That is “ a way ” men have, is it 
not ? especially when they are also poets. I do not assert 
that it is so, remember ; I simply ask Jhe question. You 
can think about it, if you like, or can spare the time ; it is 
not a matter which in the least concerns me. 

We women who are not poets, possibly appreciate our 
June^days difierently. The bare fact of existence is a joy 
to us ; an overflowing chrism of happiness is ours, merely 
because we live. The present is to us a benison. We do 
not now, as in the early springtime, listen for the first note 
of the bluebird and the murmur of the bee, or peep slyly 
along the borders to find the crocus and the early violet, or 
hearken at nightfall to the dripping of the rain, and the 
more sullen and rapid flow of the river ; nor do we, as in 
the glorious “ Indian Summer,” desire to sit down close 


28 


MY ROSES. 


beside the one we love best on earth, away on some beetling 
cliff of the “ sky-kissing mountain,” and, gazing afar over 
hill and valley, dimmed and yet illuminated by the mellow, 
golden haze of autumn, dream such day-dreams of love 
and “ witching melancholy ” as leave no other Paradise to 
which we would aspire. In spring our pleasure is that of 
anticipation — it is in the future; in autumn our deep 
joy is in remembrance — it comes up from the past; but 
now, in this perfect season — the June of the year and the 
June of our lives — we cease to hope, to remember, or to 
regret, and our souls revel only in the halcyon and glo- 
rious PRESENT. And now (if ever) we are tempted to 
wander forth into the grand old woods, and to endeavor to 
place ourselves in immediate connection with the Spirit of 
Beauty and Wisdom which pervades the universe. Under 
the magnolias we will sit hour after hour, wrapt in the 
luxurious dolee Jar niente of the present, unmindful that 
there is to be a future — forgetful that there has been a 
past. The wind comes down, murmuring musically through 
the thick and glossy foliage, the grass-blades glint in the 
sunshine, and the pallid wild-flower shoots up its slender 
stem through last year’s already mouldering leaves. Up, 
up, and afar in the deep-blue zenith hovers a hawk, as steady 
on his broad pinions as if sleeping in mid-air ; a squirrel 
chatters in the live-oak over yonder, and all along the bor- 
ders of the wood the air is vocal with the carols of the 
mocking-bird and thrush, and illuminated here and there 
by the flame-like plumage of the redbird and the oriole. 

How all these things seem to live^ and throb, and glow, 
before us ; they have a being in common with us, an en- 
joyment of existence like us ; and while we live and love 
them, they seem to tell us that they live and love us in re- 
turn. The tall trees nod their graceful “ good morrow,” 
and stretch forth their huge, waving arms to welcome us ; 


MY EOSES. 


29 


the bright moss -clump at the foot of yonder decaying 
trunk gives back our smile of recognition ; the rough old 
oak-root, gnarled, and gray, and weather-beaten as it is, 
invites us to rest ; and the wild-blossom at our feet, sway- 
ing to and fro as the breeze bows its delicate head, seems 
to implore us to spare its fragile life and unprotected love- 
liness. We feel, while thus wandering through the green 
labyrinths of the forest, that at every step a living Intelli- 
gence accompanies us — that we breathe and move amid 
the radiant realities of a spirit-world. 

It is good for me to be alone with the (so called) “inan- 
imate ’’ children of Nature, at such a season as this ; and 
if you would confess it, you would acknowledge it good for 
you also. If we have sorrows — and what child of earth 
has not ? — we can give them voice in the midst of those 
sympathizing and unchiding friends ; and, should this 
world be bright to us, and love, and health, and joy be 
ours, then may we bow our souls amid the shadows of the 
dim old woods, and, before those living witnesses, pour forth 
the full heart’s gratitude to Him who has “ cast our lines 
in pleasant places,” and given to us the “ goodly heritage ” 
of happiness. We can go forth into the “peopled solitude” 
of a June midnight — the hour of passion and of mystery, 
of power and of prayer ; when the night-winds sigh around 
us, and the blue eye of heaven reflects itself within the 
soul’s secret fountains ; and we feel that we are alone with 
God. When the silvery stars grow pale with watching — 
when the night itself seems sinking wearily under the con- 
templation of its own mysteries, and its stillness becomes 
so profound as to be almost insupportable, we too begin to 
realize something of the might and mystery of our own be- 
ing. Looking upward, we behold the realms of space, that 
spread and deepei^ as we gaze away, far away into illimita- 
ble distance, fit emblem of the eternity it symbolizes. We 
3 * 


30 


MY ROSES. 


may essay to measure it by towering hilltops, the wander- 
ing night-cloud, and the faint, dim-twinkling star ; and in 
like manner we may strive to “ fathom life,” by experience 
or theory ; but soon arises the impassable barrier to all our 
inquiries ; soon we are lost in depths where the plummet- 
line of thought must fail us — where the strongest, sternest, 
and most far-reaching human intellect must kneel, and 
tremble in the presence of the Incomprehensible. 

Do I wander? If you think so, pardon me. I have 
been going back to those June days of ours — that is to 
say, Sigismond and I. Something of their bloom and 
beauty, remembrances also of their tears and blood, recol- 
lections of their struggles and their triumphs, came over 
me. Would it not be better, however, to lay these aside 
for the present, and to tell you, just here, who and what 
were Henriette de Hauterive and Sigismond Sauvoll4e ? I 
think so. Doubtless you agree with me. 

With your permission, then, Sigismond and I were “ af- 
fianced lovers ; ” and, (what is something still more to the 
purpose,) “ fast /Wends.” The former — that is to say, M. 
Sauvollee — of French extraction, was, by birth, a Cuban. 
His paternal home lay amid the luxuriant beauties of the 
“ Queen of the Antilles.” There lay also his landed estates, 
and there his family and friends waited, one day, to wel- 
come us both. Upon the death of my mother, (which 
took place on the first of June, and my second birthday,) 
Sigismond Sauvollee, a bright boy of seven summers, was 
brought to our home to be my companion and playmate. 
A remote family connection existed between my mother 
and his; they had always been warmly attached friends; 
and I had been, in a laughing way, set apart as the future 
bride of Sigismond, ere the light of six short months had 
passed upon my baby brow. My memories of my mother 
are only the vaguest dreams — my father rarely mentioned 


MY ROSES. 


31 


her name; but from my old nurse, an unusually reticent 
woman, I gained the knowledge that a tacit agreement ex- 
isted between Madame de Hauterive and Madame Sau- 
voll4e, to the effect that in the coming years their children 
and their children’s possessions were to be united. And so 
it came to pass, pleasantly enough, that the young Cuban 
w’as brought to Louisiana to be educated with me. We 
grew up together — associated every day as intimately as 
brother and sister. We were educated together, too, hav- 
ing the same masters, with the exception of two years, 
which he spent at the University of Virginia, and I at the 
Patapsco Institute, near Baltimore. That I was often self- 
willed, proud, and passionate, as a child, and that I am 
somewhat so still, I would not pretend to deny; and that 
Sigismond, being five years my senior, with a nature sin- 
gularly calm, profound, and self-controlled, (for a French- 
man, and one born under the tropics,) had always exer- 
cised over me a deep and abiding influence, is also true. 
I loved him tenderly, and, when I knew myself to be in the 
wrong, I gave up to him, compromising with my amour 
propre, however, by stoutly declining to give up to any 
one else! Still, individuality was strong within me, and it 
was impossible that I ever could be absorbed into any other 
being, let me love him ever so devotedly ; and this may 
have been the reason that when I knew myself to be in the 
right, I gave up to nobody. True, Sigismond and myself 
frequently held different opinions, and occasionally fell 
into animated discussions as to what was right or wrong. 
When we returned from school at the same time, it was 
not as strangers — a “young lady” and “gentleman.” 
Two years had made but unimportant changes in us, or 
differences in our feelings; and, again united under my 
father’s roof, again wandering through our old childish 
haunts, or going abroad “ into society,” we seemed pleas- 


32 


MY ROSES. 


antly to fall back into the old ways, and confidences, and 
loves that characterized our happy childhood. With the 
exception of a few brief visits to his Cuban home, and oc- 
casional tours through the country on business for my 
father, Sigismond was always with me. I had many ac- 
quaintances, perhaps a few friends, among the bright belles 
of my native State ; but I never had a confidante. I never 
needed one ; for Sigismond was much more to me. If I 
was joyous, that joy was not complete until shared with 
him ; if I had sorrows, light and fleeting though they were 
as shadows of the summer clouds, I wept them away upon 
his bosom. He called me, in those June days, by the old 
child-names of “Jf ’amour,” and Fleur de Us” and 
*‘L’ame de joie;” and if we had substituted some others 
for petit mari” and “little wife,” it was not that we loved 
less ; nay, only the more. I am aware that those who are 
learned in the “ world’s ways ” may say that this picture 
of our content and happiness is not “according to cus- 
tom,” considering that we were both young and wealthy, 
somewhat inclined to gay life, each having a full share of 
outside admiration and adulation: nevertheless it is true. 
I am fully aware that, being destined for each other, we 
ought to have lived at daggers’ points, as is the prevailing 
style among Beatrices and Benedicks of modern romance ; 
but I am constrained, by honest truth, to confess that we 
did no such thing. This was “ uu-natural,” of course, and 
our conduct, under the circumstances, is reprehensible to 
the last degree. I apologize for our shortcomings, and cry 
the mercy of modern romance and its critics ! 

To us, (neither hero or heroine of modern literature, but 
simply a young man and woman of some sixteen years ago,) 
those days of June in which we lived and loved were 
neither unpleasant nor “ unnatural.” I had many ad- 
mirers — quite a crowd of suitors, too — for was I not an 


MY ROSES. 


33 


heiress ? perhaps even a few lovers ; but, somehow I never 
chose to regard them as such. It was not in my nature to 
descend to the little intrigues of coquetry and flirtation ; 
that was something I never thought of any more than I 
should have dreamed of superseding some slender spider 
in weaving his nets for the summer butterflies. (This also 
maybe considered “unnatural” — perhaps — oh! saddest 
of sins I — “ unfeminine ” I If so, allow me to deplore it 
with you, and to bewail the fact that it is now too late for 
repentance!) Confessing thus my utter incapacity for 
coquetry, let me go on to state that as to entertaining any 
real sentiment toward any other than the man who had been 
so long my friend, instructor, brother, and counsellor, I 
was saved the trouble of ever once thinking seriously about 
that. I have compared many men with Monsieur Sau- 
vollee ; but he never gave me an opportunity for making 
the comparison to his disadvantage. His high-toned and 
correct every-day life — his fine, manly beauty — his dignity 
of character — his warm, generous nature — his quiet and 
unassuming superiority over all other men of my acquaint- 
ance — above all, his uncompromising honor and reliability y 
and the deep, pure love which he so long had poured from 
his heart for my acceptance — these exempted me from all 
temptation to prove inconstant to my childhood’s vows. I 
do not in the least speak of my faithfulness to him as a 
merit — truly no ; he left me no choice ; he never allowed 
my love to be tempted to stray, simply because he was 
careful to combine all love’s attractions within himself. 
Often I have wondered “that this is not more generally 
adopted as the bond of Love — it is so exalting and so ef- 
fectual. I have wondered to see men, and women too, put 
their trust in Law and Custom ; and sometimes even allow 
Fear to hang his chains of ice on Love, when it would be 
better to teach him how to forge his own bright, easy 


34 


MY ROSES. 


fetters of elastic gold ! Sigismond’s example was beauti- 
ful to me, and I used my best endeavors to emulate it. 
That he had never given a thought of his heart’s love to 
other than myself, I was perfectly assured. I believed it 
— not because I felt myself to be more worthy than all 
others ; no — but simply because his actions said so, and in 
nothing had he ever given me reason to doubt him. Doubt- 
less there were women more amiable, more “ lovable ” 
than I — doubtless there were many more beautiful. I 
was what men call “ magnificent,” it is true ; and I was 
well endowed intellectually. I say this without vanity, of 
course — merely as I would speak of a third person ; for 
I neither created nor endowed myself, and if God bestowed 
upon me beauty, either personal or mental, it was mine 
for His glory and others’ good — not for the petty vanities 
of self. 

In common with my birth-month, I had a full, fresh, 
and as yet untaxed vitality — an afliuence of exultant 
energy and power, which was, perhaps, not woman-/iA:e in 
these days of pseudo-refinement ; and yet, I trust I am most 
womanly. In person, I was tall and rather slender, yet full- 
limbed, lithe, and strong ; I danced d ravir, rode admira- 
bly, and with my gold-enamelled “ revolver” could hit a 
target in the “ eye ” at ten paces. Such “ accomplish- 
ments,” as well as the fine, healthful development of my 
physique, are, of course, due to Sigismond ; I had shared 
his boy’s sports from infancy ; I loved the free, fresh air, 
the ride, the river, the open field or tangled wood ; and no 
restraint had ever been placed upon my boyishness by my 
father. Indeed, for that matter, my father had appeared 
to take but little interest in me during my childhood, and 
there being no “quick bond of sympathy” between us 
was, I suppose, one reason why it always seemed so nat- 
ural to me to turn for all congeniality and confidence to 


MY ROSES. 


35 


Sigismond. My father was a reserved, self-contained, un- 
demonstrative man, and I had imputed his inattention to 
myself to that cause, rather than to a want of natural 
affection. I never knew exactly whether he considered 
me a creature whom 

“Heaven never meant to be a passive thing, 

That can be struck, and hammered out to suit 
Another’s taste or fancy,” 

and so was content to let me grow up without restraint, or 
any other species of paternal “hammering;” or whether 
the free life he allowed me to lead had made me the strong- 
willed, impulsive woman which, at the age of twenty years, 
I found myself. 

My father must have been, at one time, a remarkably 
stately and handsome man, but for years he had been an 
invalid ; and my remembrance could not reach backward 
to a time when he had appeared young or vigorous. 
Even at the time of which I write, he was scarcely past 
his prime ; yet had he a broken constitution, and the look 
of a man prematurely aged. The^rs^ of June, as far back 
as I could remember, had been a gloomy anniversary to 
him. That it was my birthday he never forgot — yet it 
was also the anniversary of my mother’s death ; and my 
white-haired nurse, usually so reticent, was wont to shake 
her head and say, “Ah! bless God, my lady, that you 
was a mere baby then — a mere baby. Old master, poor 
man, nebber bin the same since that dark day come ober 
this house. That was the stroke wat cut deep, an’ leave 
the scar on the heart for years an’ years. It ’ll war’ him 
out long afore his time.” 

Nearly a year previous to the period when my story 
commences, I had had a very severe attack of fever, con- 
sequent, perhaps, upon a change of climate, as I had just 


36 


MY ROSES. 


returned from school. During that protracted illness my 
father devoted himself to me, and after my recovery I 
found his manner toward me very materially changed. 

He was kind, gentle, even at times affectionate; indul- 
gent he had ever been. After that fever, my long, luxu- 
riant hair had all fallen, and now the young growth, glossy 
and silken and raven black, with a wave and curl in it, 
was just of sufficient length to droop over my brow and 
neck — which very much heightened my general resem- 
blance to my father. I believe he always considered me 
as like himself — not at all resembling my fair, dead 
mother. Whether or not this was a gratification to him, 
I never knew ; but I do know that he was highly pleased, 
one day in the early May of this year, when we had com- 
pany to dine, and a gentleman, who had long known my 
father, exclaimed, looking earnestly at me : 

“ Upon my life, De Hauterive, mademoiselle your 
daughter, is the revised counterpart of yourself, some 
twenty-five or thirty years ago.” 

“ She is the only one left who bears my name. Made- 
moiselle — your health,” said my father, raising his glass, 
and looking at me with a gratified smile. 

■- Oui — long life and happiness. Mademoiselle, votre 
serviteur” added his friend, bowing and tossing off his 
wine. 

“ ‘ Long life and happiness ’ — not the former without 
the latter,” said my father slowly, his eyes fixed upon my 
face with far more of love and pride in their expression 
than I had ever detected there before. 

Since my return from school I had presided as mistress 
of the establishment. Mrs. Mcllvaine, the former house- 
keeper, carried the keys as usual, but I dispensed the hos- 
pitalities of my father’s house to his guests, attending also 
to many of his little peculiarities ; and he never once in 


MY ROSES. 


37 


liis life appeared dissatisfied with anything I did for him. 
I had endeavored, even as a child, (as far as I knew how,) 
to win upon the aflTections of this only parent ; and I believe 
that he, (when he began to notice me at all,) in truth, 
gave me his respect, his admiration, even his affection to a 
degree — in brief, everything save that which would have 
been most beneficial to both — his sympathy and confi- 
dence. At rare intervals, since my return, he spoke to 
me of my mother — scarcely in any other way, however, 
than to say how closely I resembled her in character, (not 
personal appearance,) and how proud she would have been, 
had she lived, to see me blooming into womanhood. 

This, in brief, was the position of family affairs in our 
household, on the morning of that first of June, 1852, 
when Monsieur Sauvoll4e and I visited the rooms of M. 
Moisinett, (corner of Camp and Canal streets ;) and found 
there a tiny picture, the discovery of which gave a deeper 
coloring to our after-lives. I will hasten to resume my 
story. Its movement is both strong and swift, for the days 
of this June had not passed ere all the most exciting ac- 
tion was complete. Purest pleasure and poignant pain — 
rich reward and righteous retribution — the toil and the 
triumph — doubt, and despair, and death : how they drive 
across each other’s lines before me, as Memory calls up 
anew the mingled maze of that shifting panorama which 
marked for us those darkening days of June ! 

4 


CHAPTER III. 


ON THE SHELL. ROAD.’’ 

Fair as the first that fell of womankind. 

Byron. 

Give me a living reason she ’s disloyal. 

If she be false, 0 ! then Heaven mocks itself. 

I ’ll not believe it ! 

Shaespeare. 

O N this first of June of which I have been speaking 
(which was to have been ray wedding-day,) I did not 
once see ray father. His disapproval of our marriage upon 
that day caused us to postpone it for a month — this being 
his urgent request. 

On that morning he breakfasted in his own room, where 
he continued all day, until rather late in the evening — 
nearly sunset, indeed ; when he ordered his horse, and rode 
out in the direction of the lake. Returning about dusk, 
he retired immediately to his chamber ; and when I sent up 
his tea, with the inquiry, “ Was he well, and might I come 
up to say good-night ? ” the reply brought back by his man, 
Thomas, was, “ Quite well, but did not wish to be disturbed 
— he sent me good-night, and would see me in the morn- 
ing.” 

It was, perhaps, nine o’clock next morning, when I 
tapped softly at his chamber-door, and listening, heard his 
voice as softly bid me enter. He was seated in his easy- 
chair, still in dressing-gown and slippers : he rose as I en- 

38 


MY ROSES. 


39 


tered, and coming forward, held out his hand to hid me 
^^honjour” He seemed feeble, I thought — and his coun- 
tenance, though kindly, was wan and haggard. The eyes 
looked so heavy, the high brow so worn, and the whole 
man so dejected and weary ! The day previous must have 
been to him a day of torture. I do not know what came 
over me just then, but I saw that he was suffering, and, 
while tears sprang to my eyes, I put up my arm around 
his neck, and as he bowed his head, I kissed him — a thing 
I had never dared do in all my life before. He was visi- 
bly affected — his hand trembled violently as he placed a 
low seat for me beside his own chair. For some moments 
both were silent. Then, after failing once or twice in my 
attempts to carry on a connected conversation, I noticed 
that his morning papers were unopened, and not placed 
where he liked to have them. I rose, opened and laid 
them upon his table, adjusted several articles about the 
room, arranged the curtains so as to admit only a soft and 
pleasant light, and shook up the pillows of his lounge. 
Then, as I sat down by him again, I took up one of the 
papers and said, “ May I read to you, sir ? ” 

“ Do, if you please, my child,” he replied, very gently. 
Scarcely could I see the words for the great tears that 
would come welling up to my eyes ; scarcely could I steady 
my voice to speak them, for the thrill and tremble in my 
heart at those new, sweet words — “ My child.” It was the 
first — the very first time he had ever uttered them to me 
— and I a woman grown ! Twenty years — and this the 
only time I ever remembered to have been called “ My 
child.” Gathering back my voice as soon as I could com- 
mand it, I read on, pausing at intervals to listen to his 
comments, and thus the hours wore away. Dinner was 
announced ere I left my father that day, and as I turned 
to go, he said, as he drew me toward him, “ I thank you ; 
you have done me much good : when will you come again ?” 


40 


MY KOSES. 


“ At any time you may desire it, sir, ” I replied. 

“ I feel that I shall desire it always, when you are dis- 
engaged. Let it be soon, my child.” And with a full heart 
and brimming eyes I descended the stairs. 

“You look pale, ma belle — pale and weary, too — you 
have not been abroad once to-day,” said Sigismond, as we 
trifled over the dessert. “ Let me order out the ‘ Camanche 
Chief’ for you, and we ’ll have a canter halfway down to 
the lake — say as far as the Metairie, at all events. What 
do you say, fleur-de-lis f ” 

“ That I shall be happy to go, if you will drive me your- 
self. I don’t want Pierre to drive us, and I am not equal 
to the ‘ Camanche ’ this evening.” 

“ Very well, it shall be as you desire. It is so unheard- 
of a circumstance for you to look wearied, Henriette ! You 
are thinking too much about that picture. I begin to wish 
you had never seen it.” 

“ I am glad to have discovered it, mon ami. I have a 
presentiment that merely seeing it, is not to be the end. 
We will talk of it hereafter — on the road,” I said, paus- 
ing suddenly, as my maid appeared in answer to Sigis- 
mond’s ring. 

“ Tr^s bon. Here, Ninette, bring your mistress her hat 
and some wrapping. Take a mantle, mignonne — the dews 
may be falling before our return,” said Monsieur Sauvollee, 
as he passed out. 

“ Throw back the top, Pierre ; you know we ’re not going 
to be shut up, or down either, upon such an evening as f^is 
— pretending to be out for the beneflt of the air, too,” 
laughed he, as the horses dashed up to the gateway, and 
we took our seats in the light vehicle. 

“ Now for it — take it easy, my beauties,” he added, as 
the spirited favorites bounded oflf; “and show ofi* your met- 
tle to the mistress. Is n’t he a ‘ model,’ mignonne f If it 


MY ROSES. 


41 


was n’t for the climate, I could fancy myself a Lapp, and 
should begin to sing of him as ‘ Kulnasatz, my reindeer ; ’ ” 
and Sigismond, with a gay smile, brought the tip of his 
whip gently, almost lovingly down upon the satiny coat 
of his especial delectation in the way of horseflesh — the 
“Camanche.” “What would men be flt for without — 
horses ? ” he emphasized, with a quick glance into my eyes. 
I was spiritless, and he was exerting himself to rouse me. 

“ Not very much, I confess. So much greater is my 
admiration for horses than for men, that if a good-looking 
Centaur were to appear as my suitor, there would be small 
chance for you, senor,” I answered, laughingly. 

*^Tout de bon / I thought I should wake you ! You are 
thinking again, and when you keep all your thoughts to 
yourself, you know I can’t bear it,” he said. 

We were out of the city, and bowling along the most de- 
lightful (to me) of all the world’s “drives,” the “New Shell 
Road.” The moment the horses’ hoofs struck the firm, 
smooth surface, they seemed endowed with all the full fresh- 
ness and elastic vigor of this summer-spring ; tossing their 
proud heads, they pranced over the beautiful stretch of 
“ white way ” before them, as though they might have been 
Aurora’s steeds, and this “ the luminous track of day ” they 
were wont to travel. The canal reflected white clouds that 
hung high up in the mid-heaven; birds here and there 
were dropping down into the thick foliage in an atmo- 
sphere of song ; the tall old cypresses waved their banners 
of emerald creeper, and gray, swaying moss; the lake 
breeze set the young leaves all a-tremble ; and now and 
then a lonely dove, deeper in the forest, sent forth upon 
the fragrant air the soft, sighing cadence of her mourning, 
“ so musical, so melancholy.” Occasional equipages and 
equestrians appeared upon the road, nearly every one going 
in the direction of the lake, for this was the fashionable 

4 * 


42 


MY ROSES. 


evening drive — a sort of Alameda for the gay denizens of 
the Crescent City. 

At first I had leaned back languidly upon the cush- 
ions ; but very soon the pure, free air, the exercise, and 
the beautifully smiling face of Nature around us, together 
with Sigismond’s infectious bonhomie, aroused me from 
my lethargy ; and, shaking off* the spiritless calm which 
had crept over me, I began to recount to my companion 
the particulars of this day, spent almost entirely with my 
father. My new experiences interested him deeply. It 
was a source of sincere gratification to him that the barriers 
so long existing between my father’s heart and that of his 
only child seemed slowly crumbling down — opening up the 
way, he fondly hoped, for a new era in both our lives. 

“ Cela procede bien,” he remarked, as I finished my re- 
cital. “Ah! it is more than well. You will yet be able 
to bring to him great happiness — possibly when he needs 
it most : I pray it may be so. Was I not right in naming 
you long ago, ‘ L’ame dejoie?^” and his eyes rested upon 
my face, full of that calm and tender light which I so 
loved to see. 

“ Perhaps you may have some pleasant news to give me 
in exchange for mine,” I said. “ Of course, you remember 
your promise of last night? ” 

“ Oui ! But first I will ‘ revise and correct ’ a late remark 
of mine. I asked, what are men fit for without — horses ? 
Now I inquire, of what worth are men without — women? 
I really felt completely lost and good-for-nothing to-day 
without you — un homme ennuyeux. I became that miracle 
of modern life, a man weary of — himself. Consequently 
I turned to the business of investigation for your special 
benefit. When I found that you were not coming down- 
stairs at all this morning, I took out the ‘ Chief’ here, for 
a drive up town. My intention was to go first to the Ve- 


MY ROSES. 


43 


randa, and consult with Eugene or La Moyne ; but every 
thing came round in the easiest and most natural way 
imaginable, quite contrary to my anticipations. Passing 
the St. Louis Hotel, I saw Alphonse Cartiere, of Baton 
K-ouge, standing at the entrance. He hailed me, and came 
out to admire the ‘Camanche,’ of course; after that, I 
invited him to take a seat with me, which he did. Wq 
drove up Koyal at a spanking pace — that is to say, as 
gracefully as those detestable boulders will allow — and 
drew up at the Veranda. Eugene was not in — absent 
* professionally.’ His popularity in the business 

. . . ‘ to mend or end us, 

Secundum artem,^ 

is becoming ruinous to friendship and leisure : he rarely 
ever has time to catch his breath, it seems to me. But he 
is building up for himself a reputation and a fortune.” 

“ Which, when he wins them, will give him all the 
friendship and leisure he can reasonably desire,” I interpo- 
lated, smiling. 

“ Vraiment. But we will not be satirical just now : when 
you come to think about it, this is a very tolerable old 
world after all — in any event, the best we are acquainted 
with, as yet,” he replied, laughing. 

“ Gomme cela : proceed, senor.” And he continued, 

“We were turning off, when just opposite us, coming 
round the St. Charles, whom should we meet but the liv- 
ing originals of those two pictures we saw at Moisinett’s 
yesterday! ‘Ah I’ I exclaimed, with as much noncha- 
lance as I could summon up at the moment, ‘ what a very 
lovely woman — there — just, turning the corner now! 
Don’t you see, Cartiere? Who can she be?’ 

“‘Which one are you talking about?’ inquired he, with 
a half smile. 


44 


MY KOSES. 


“ ‘ The one in — in — well, I don’t know what you call 
the color ; not the one in rose-color — the other,’ I replied. 

“‘Aha!’ he laughed; ‘and so you prefer the ashes of 
roses to the roses themselves? Well, there are exceptions 
to all rules, and in this case I can’t say but I commend 
your taste. Delicious creature, isn’t she? Like Katinka, 

“ A Georgian, white and red ; 

With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem made to tread 
The earth,” 

and so forth.’ 

“ ‘ A truce to description ; I ’ve seen her. Tell me who 
she is ! ’ I interrupted. 

“ ‘ Very well, 

“ I won’t describe ; description is my forte. 

But every fool describes in these bright days,” etc. 

and, besides, when I come to think of it, 

“Her beauty is of that o’erpowering kind 
Whose force description only would abate ; 

. . . it would strike you blind 

Could I do justice to the full detail; 

So, luckily for both, my phrases fail ! ” ’ 

“‘Will you soon have done with that nonsense, and give 
a man a plain answer?’ I asked, much amused with his 
badinage. • 

“ ‘ Where is the sense of telling a man what he and 
everybody else knows ? ’ he inquired, facing me. ‘ By- 
the-by, Sauvollee, how admirably you put on the “ anxious 
inquirer” as you wondered who this Lady Gay co\dd be! 
Any fellow but myself, now, might have been humbugged 
into the belief that you did n’t know her.’ 


MY ROSES. 


45 


“ ‘ And most assuredly I do not/ I answered. * I never 
saw the lady before in my life.’ 

Pshaw ! don’t talk in that style to me. You ’ve met 
her at least a score of times, I ’ll wager ; on the streets — 
down at the Metairie at the last meeting — or at the Opera 
House. She is “ all the rage ” just now.’ 

“ ‘ You quite mistake,’ I responded. ‘ I was in Havana 
when the spring races came off — and since my return — ’ 

“ ‘ Well — yes. It may be so — on the whole,’ he said, 
laughing heartily. ‘ I thought you were practising upon 
me — frauduleusement — you understand. You’ve been 
absent sometimes, and — by the zone of Venus! it’s ra- 
ther a tight rein that magnificent Junonian He Hauterive 
keeps upon you.’ 

“ ‘ I prefer that you should not mention that name in 
any such manner or connection,’ I said, dropping out the 
word ‘ connection,’ unconsciously, as I turned and looked 
him steadily in the eyes. 

“ ‘ Frankly, then, I beg your pardon, Sauvoll4e. I in- 
tended no disrespect either to you or your fiancee' he 
apologized. ‘ But — here we are, away up town — if you 
will turn about, now, bringing up round the corner of the 
St. Charles, and strike off in the direction of the Catholic 
Cemetery, I will point out to you the “ Maison des Bijoux," 
or “ House of the Jewels,” as those fast fellows in our set 
have styled the residence of this gem of beauty.’ 

‘‘‘Would not Maison des Pseudamantes be a more ap- 
propriate name ? ’ I asked, as I wheeled the ‘ Chief,’ and 
struck out again for the St. Charles. 

“ ‘ Ay ! ay I “ mock-diamonds,” every one of them I But, 
hang moralizing — where ’s the use? ’ and he laughed in his 
half-reckless way. ‘If I had been a committee appointed 
to christen that expensive Mohammed’s paradise, I ’d 
have styled it the Maison de Phlehotomie ; for, by the god 


46 


MY EOSES. 


of war, the atmosphere bleeds one like the very d — 
well, the doctors, of course. There! don’t drive right 
over that specimen of young America: how absent-minded 
you are ! Explain this abstraction. What is the matter, 
Sauvollee ? ’ 

“ ‘ Nothing — nothing at all — go on with your story,’ I 
said, somewhat impatiently. 

“ ‘ Story ? Now listen to the man ! I have n’t any story 
to tell. All I know concerning those fair dames is simply 
this : the name of the brunette is Marguerite ; if she pos- 
sesses a surname, it has never transpired in my presence. 
They call the other — your “ ashes of roses ” I mean — Cor- 
alie — Coralie Lesueur, I think ; she is the niece and es- 
pecial “gem” of Madame Lesueur, the amiable hostess 
of the “ Hotel des Bijoux.” La helle Marguerite is not an 
angel ; her constant companion. Mademoiselle Coralie, looks 
like one ; that is, 

“As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I ’ll not be bail for anything beyond.” 

I have been an occasional visitor there with that fastest of 
“fast” young gentlemen, Jules Berth el. He is one of the 
habitues of the place. By-the-by, where does he raise his 
purses ? He scatters money like a sultan. Mademoiselle 
Marguerite is a great favorite with him — the imperial 
Gulbeyaz! She fascinates, even while she tramples you 
down. 

“ There is a self-will even in her feet; 

They tread, as upon necks — ” 

and so on. And that’s all I know about these pretty 
“ pseudamantes,” as you style them. In my visits I never 
saw Coralie Lesueur — understand that she puts on quite an 
extensive assortment of “ airs,” and never enters the public 
salon* 


MY ROSES. 


47 


“ * There is some hope in that,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Hope ? for what ? What sort of hope, pray ? I don’t 
exactly understand you. Do you know you are looking as 
grave as all the city Sunday-schools on their good behavior 
at a holiday fete, and as gray and lofty as the spire of the 
old Cathedral ? There ! turn the corner here : yonder looms 
the “ Maison des Bijoux.^' Very tolerable domicile, as far 
as appearance goes, after all.’ 

‘‘We soon passed the house; all was silent about it; in 
nothing distinguishable from any other handsome city res- 
idence. Turning several squares, I set Alphonse down at 
his hotel, the St. Lou — ” 

“Hush! look! who is that I uttered, grasping his arm 
suddenly. My heart rose in my throat ; my brain whirled ; 
a deadly faintness seized me ; yet, with half-dazed eyes, I 
strained my gaze, through my thick lace veil, upon the 
group just in front of us. I took it all in in a moment. 
We were driving leisurely back to town, when, amid the 
gay crowd passing and repassing, (for at this hour the 
number of pleasure-seekers was greatly increased,) my eye 
fell upon this fair equestrienne, with two attendant cava- 
liers. 

“ItissAe.'” whispered Sigismond. There was no need 
to tell me ; too well I knew that face — that face so subtly, 
strangely sweet — that heart-haunting face ! Her appear- 
ance was such as would arrest the most careless observer ; 
she was indeed “ the cynosure of neighboring eyes.” In- 
dependent of the exceeding loveliness of the face, and the 
rare grace and beauty of figure, her presence and costume 
would command attention. She reminded me of some fair 
vision of the knightly tales of old. I thought of Thomas 
the Rhymer dazzled by his day-dream of the Elfland 
Queen as she came in state, 


Riding down by the Eildon Tree.’ 


48 


MY ROSES. 


Her horse was a spirited creature, rav^n black, and glossy 
as satin, and she sat ‘upon him like an empress. Her 
habit of black velvet, and hat of the same, the sweeping 
plumes tipped with snow, set off the transparent complex- 
ion and rose-leaf cheek to a charm ; her white gauntlets 
grasped lightly the sable and silken rein; there was a half 
smile upon the lips as she went floating past us, but her 
eyes were cast down, hidden : and why ? What a picture 
it was, though — I see it now ! The lovely lady and her 
sable steed; her two attendants, superbly mounted also, 
and costumed in the extreme of fashion ; a splendid ta- 
bleaux : to one who could not read it aright, how full of 
gayety and grace! to me, who looked into the fatal mean- 
ing, how redolent of grief and gloom ! 

‘‘ Who was that man on her left ? ” T asked of Sigis- 
mond, rousing myself from the abstraction into which I 
had fallen, as we drove into the city. 

“I have never heard his name,” he replied. “I have 
seen him, however, about the hotels, and think he is from 
Mississippi : I heard some one designate him the other day 
as ‘ that fellow who presented J ules Berthel with ten thou- 
sand ; I suppose at some maison de jeu, of course. He 
plays like a returned Californian, on dit : a professional 
joueur, no doubt. You know the other caballero — Jules 
Berthel.” 

“Yes — I should think so.” And I had reason to re- 
member Berthel. He came of an ancient and opulent 
French family, residing in the interior of the State ; and 
he was one of those who, backed by his family, had sedu- 
lously presented his claims to my hand (and fortune). 
Not abashed by a simple and decided No, he seemed deter- 
mined to persecute me with his attentions ; and, persecu- 
tion of any kind being a thing to which I was entirely un- 
accustomed, T him know it. He was ^’f'ckless and dis- 


MY ROSES. 


49 


Bipated — I could not brook his pretensions. So it came to 
pass that one morning we had a stormy “scene” — two 
impetuous natures coming into a volcanic collision, as it 
were : the consequence, I forbade him ever ■ again to en- 
ter my father’s house, or to speak to me more. He obeyed, 
and I believed now hated me, as deeply as he had formerly 
professed to love. He threw himself recklessly 'into a 
circle of society which was beneath him, bringing de- 
gradation to himself, and deep grief to his family. He 
vowed resolutely, in my presence, to do this, should I cast 
him off; and I as resolutely repudiated the idea of being 
held responsible for any act of his — past, present, or to 
come. At this time, I should not have wasted a thought 
upon him, save that the fact of his association, and that of 
a desperate gambler, with the original of the picture^ 
went far, very far toward sinking that blessed, buoyant 
hope I had dared to cherish of her innocence and truth. 

“ Is your woman’s faith in woman still triumphant, 
Henriette ? ” said Sigismond, sadly, as he handed me up 
the steps of my home — sadly, but oh I I thought then, so 
cruelly, too. I burst into a passion of tears — partly for 
my shaken faith, partly for his unkindness ; for though I 
knew afterward that he did not mean it thus, his words 
cut me to the heart, and I broke from his arm and ran 
away to hide myself and weep alone. Oh, the bitter an- 
guish of that hour ! The soft June air, so full of life and 
love, the song of evening birds, the fragrant breath of 
roses, the glories of a summer’s sunset, all came flushing 
over my bowed head, which lay beneath the open case- 
ment ; but all the sunshine and music that ever streamed 
out of a June heaven, could not have lightened up the 
gloom of that world of shadows which had closed so 
darkly around my heart ! 

6 


CHAPTER IV. 


PRO ET CON. 

But, pity, too, had dues : 

She could not leave a solitary soul 
To founder in the dark. . . . 

He, by man’s conscience, she, by woman’s heart. 
Relinquishing their several ’vantage posts 
Of wealthy ease, and honorable toil, 

To work with God, at love. . . . 

I, whose days 

Are not so fine they cannot bear the rain. 

And who, moreover having seen her face. 

Must see it again, . . . will see it, by my hopes 

Of one day seeing heaven too. 

Browning. 

I MPOSSIBLE! utterly impossible!” exclaimed Monsieur 
S^voll4e, determinedly. 

“No,” I said, “it is not impossible, won awi, because 
it must be done. I am compelled to save her, Sigismond. 
Something tells me that it can — it will be done — and that 
I am the one to do it. I do not see my way clearly now, it 
is true ; the path is a hidden one, but it is one which I 
must traverse, nevertheless. It may be that when I enter 
upon it, the Almighty arm upon which I lean will clear 
away the mists before me ; will say, ‘ Let there be light,’ and 
I shall see my way, step by step, to the desired end. I 
shall seek direction and support from Him who is * mighty 
to save.’ ” 

“ Henriette !■” he exclaimed impulsively, “I tell you it 
cannot be ! You cannot for one moment realize what you 

60 


MY E08ES. 


51 


are talking of; nor can you even imagine the realities 
through which you will be obliged to pass. Difficulties 
will meet you at every step — dangers of which you now 
can form no conception. I would not have you be able 
even to imagine them. I would have you always as now, 
full of innocence and purity — knowing no guile — wear- 
ing the unsullied spirit and the stainless robes of a saint, 
and — ” 

‘‘Your pardon. But I am not a saint, Sigismond,” I 
interrupted, (a little impatiently, I fear ;) “ and even if I 
were a saint, I should consider it no derogation to endeavor 
to become a savior of a fellow creature. We can never be 
too pure, too high, or too holy to attempt doing good ; a 
mortal need never think he stoops to an office once filled by 
a God. The idea of a saint — of St. Cecilia, for instance, the 
embodiment of innocence and purity, is angelically beau- 
tiful — nay, almost divine; and yet, to me, those fair min- 
isters of consolation and redemption, who go down unaided 
into the gloom and horror of the prison, the hospital, and 
the mad-house, are diviner still. The ecstasies and mira- 
cles of all the canonized saints of old (to my mind) fall 
far below the life-work of some humble Sister of Mercy — 
some strong, fearless, and undaunted spirit, who, alone 
and unknown, fights the ‘ good fight ’ for humanity — and 
so for God.” • 

My listener elevated his dark brows a very little, and 
then, looking archly into my eyes, said, “ I hope you are 
not just about finding out that you have a ‘mission,’ ma 
helle, I don’t appreciate a woman with a ‘ mission ’ at- 
tached, you know.” 

“ ‘ Answer not a ’ — simpleton — ‘ according to his 
folly,’” I rejoined, smiling in spite of myself. “We 
all have a ‘ mission ’ of some kind, mon bon. Some 
of us are a long time finding out what it is, and some 


52 


MY KOSES. 


appear never to find it out. There is no doubt a purpose 
waiting for each one of us when we come to this world : 
if we never discover what it te, more shame for us. If, 
however, we know our duty and ignore it by our practice, 
we are inexcusable. I do not pretend to call this intense 
desire which is upon me to do something to benefit the 
original of that haunting picture, a ‘ mission.^ I have no 
such high-sounding phrase in which to speak of every-day 
aflfairs ; yet, in verity, this seems to me a portion of the 
work which I have been placed here to do. Somehow it 
possesses me like a deep, still madness ; it carries me away 
back into sortie buried past j it hurries me forward into a 
hidden future ; and it lives everywhere in my present. I 
have a work to do — somehow — and I shall never be 
happy again until it is done.” 

“ ‘ Somehow,^ ” he repeated. “ I cannot think wh^ you 
want to do this for a stranger, or how you propose setting 
about it. Are you not strangely tolerant of the failings 
of your own sex ? Is it not the custom for ladies generally 
to wrap themselves securely in the velvety mantle of their 
own righteousness, to gather up their snowy vesture, and 
bar securely the doors of society against those whom we 
designate as ‘ outcast and abandoned ? ’ ” 

“That is man’s creed, I believe,” I answered, rather 
warmly. “For myself, I think I have a basis for my 
belief that woman is really not uncharitable at heart to 
her sister woman. Many of them lack the courage to 
confess the compassion which I am sure they feel, lest it 
should be misconstrued, or mistaken for a toleration of 
wrong, or an affiliation with evil. Many of them think it 
necessary to appear ignorant of all the darker phases of 
life, because, forsooth, men do so admire simplicity and 
innocence! But this is an hypocrisy generally ; an offence 
against truth, to which no true woman can ever condescend. 


MY ROSES. 


63 


There is, it cannot be denied, a good deal of unnecessary, 
not to say nonsensical cant among men, (usually the worst 
of them, too,) concerning ‘ spotless-lily-hood * and ‘ angelic 
purity,’ and * seraphic innocence,’ and all that sort of thing. 
Now this is all ‘ flat, stale,’ and exceedingly ‘ unprofitable.’ 
I don’t see that it improves men in the least — nor women 
either. None of us are either ‘lilies’ or ‘angels’ yet; let 
us try to be human and Christian. If we attain that 
degree here, we have the promise that hereafter we shall 
be ‘ as the angels in heaven ’ — thank God ! ” 

“You seem to forget, Henriette, that she in whom you 
are now interesting yourself, in all probability is not de- 
sirous of changing her mode of life. From what I can 
learn of her history, she has been brought up in that 
atmosphere, her companions are all of that ‘ circle,’ and, 
doubtless, her mind and heart both bear the stamp of ‘ evil 
communications.’ It is not natural that it should be other- 
wise. And, if this should be the case, think for a moment 
to what you would subject yourself by a contact with such 
scenes and characters.” 

“I am not expecting to walk forth upon a primrose 
path, Sigismond,” I said, sadly. “The way of duty is 
beset by many a thorn, but we are commanded to walk 
therein, nevertheless.” 

“ How can you prove to me that this is the path of 
duty?” he exclaimed. “ If you can do that, mignonne, I 
will listen to your wild plans with more seriousness. But 
why you of all others, and more than all others, should 
sacrifice your delicacy of feeling, your woman’s modesty, 
your own fair fame, perhaps, (for can you bide the stings 
of slanderous tongues ?) for a stranger and an outcast, I 
cannot, and I never shall be able to see.” 

“ I cannot ‘ prove ’ to you, mon ami, that this is my duty, 
unless the consequences prove it,” I said, as the great tears 
6 * 


54 


MY ROSES. 


sprang to my eyes. “ I could weep my heart away, over 
the impending fate of this young stranger; but I must not 
now sit down to idle weeping ; I must at least try to save 
her from that fate. While I weep, I must also work ; tears 
without acts, will not avail me. There is something in my 
own heart which seems to stretch out its arms toward her 
— that would enfold her, and shield her; something which 
tells me, too, that despite her position and surroundings, 
she does not love the life she leads. I cannot think that 
she has fallen so low as you believe.” 

He smiled incredulously : still it was a soft, sad smile, as 
he asked, “ But if she should ? ” 

“Then my task will be the greater,” I said, quietly. 
“ She must be taught to hate, and then abandon it. As I 
told you at first, I must go to see her, ascertain how matters 
stand, and be guided accordingly.” 

“ Henriette, it must not be, my love ! ” uttered Sigismond, 
as he came forward to the open window where I stood, and 
took both my hands in his. “ There are a thousand reasons 
why it cannot be — reasons which you cannot understand 
— which I dare not oflfend your ear by explaining. And 
then, consider, what is it that would not be said if such a 
proceeding on your part were known to the world ? ” 

“The world dare not judge me wrongfully. I am far 
beyond its bitterness and ban,” I said, haughtily. 

“Ah! believe it not. The world judges us all, and to 
woman it is a bitter censor. Do not give it one faint shadow 
by which to pronounce sentence of death against your high 
and stainless life.” His deep tones were laden with a serious 
tenderness, and he drew me closer to him, as if to shield 
me from the doom of which he spoke. My heart was giving 
way to him, but my purpose was not. I loved him, oh ! so 
truly — and yet I said, in a low, firm voice : 

“ I must try to save her, Sigismond.” 


MY ROSES. 


65 


Let the consequences be what they may ? ” 

“ Even so.” 

“ But you cannot go there ! ” he exclaimed, vehemently. 

You cannot go. I had almost said shall not ! Surely, 
surely, Henriette, you cannot mean it ! It would drive me 
wild to think of you — alone — in such a — ” 

“ I shall not go alone,” I interrupted, while my brim- 
ming eyes looked up confidingly to his. “ I could not go 
alone. Oh ! Sigismond, my only friend — do not oppose 
me further — help me I Pour V amour de Dieu, don’t leave 
me to myself ! I must work, and I must have you to aid 
me.” 

He was battling with himself — answering not a word; 
and I went on, hurriedly. “ Do not misjudge us. The 
heart of woman is not always the selfish, unjust, and cruel 
thing which men would have us suppose. They tell us we 
trample down each other — that we forgive all things, save 
‘ an erring sister’s shame.’ We may be severe, when we 
think of the heights from which she fell ; but we weep 
gentle pity’s tears when we remember the depths to which 
she has fallen. Virtue is, with us, not the cold abstraction 
which many suppose ; the statue heaves and throbs with 
the strong beating of humanity’s great heart; and there is 
blood — warm, human blood, coursing and thrilling through 
every marble vein. Some of our great modern artists have 
dared to throw the flush of the rose upon their ideal cre- 
ations ; so a new feeling of warmth, a glow, and color, is 
flushing the once cold and isolated forms of virtue, purity, 
and truth. To be pure, we need not be ice. All ice is not 
stainless, and the whitest angel’s wing is warm, and glow- 
ing, and full of strong vitality. And we, though we may 
aspire to do the deeds that angels love, must be human 
still. I see an angel’s work before me, and, human as I 
am, I must go forward, I will go — ” 


56 


MY ROSES. 


“But/* he interrupted, quickly, “not alone. You say 
you will not go alone.” 

“ And I will not, I promise you. I have two friends 
who will accompany me ; and I can rely on both.” 

“ Who ? ” he whispered, huskily. 

“God, and — you! Mon ami, do not deny me this. 
For the sake of my heart’s best love, which is yours, sus- 
tain me with your love. For the sake of the life which we 
hope to pass together, let no cloud come between us. For 
the love of God, and the memory of our dear dead 
mothers, let us save this stranger from a life of sorrow, 
and a death of darkness. Help me to think how it is to 
be done, and then help me to do it.” 

Proudly, with a flushing brow, and 

“ Strong leaps of meaning in his sudden eyes,” 

which said he dared do anything I asked, he drew me 
closely to his heart. His fine eyes shone with crystal 
drops, and he murmured, with “ tears in his voice,” “ God 
bless you, fleur-de-lis. Tell me in what way I can assist 
you. You shall never appeal to me in vain.” 


The foregoing is only a portion of a conversation which 
took place on the day after our ride, mentioned in the last 
chapter. My father was slightly better on that day, and 
as he had papers to arrange previous to the departure of 
Monsieur Sauvoll4e on his business tour up the “ Coast,” I 
spent the morning in the drawing-room with Sigismond. 
He asked me to practise some new duets with him ; but I 
had scarcely sung the first stanzas when visitors were an- 
nounced. Their stay was not prolonged, and when they 
left, I rose, and walked to the open window to see them 
enter their carriage. Just beyond our gateway, an elegant 


MY ROSESi 


67 


carriage was passing. In the open carriage sat two beau- 
tiful girls, one clad in rose-colored silk, the other in lus- 
trous “ ashes of roses.” My eyes swam : Sigismond, with a 
slight start, exclaimed, “There, ma belle I do you see?” 
And we remained just inside the alcove for full three 
hours, in '“converse long and deep” — a portion of our 
discussion already related. “ Tell me in what way I can 
assist you,” my best friend had said. How true it was 
that I “ had never appealed in vain ” to him ! But now, 
when my appeal was answered, could I find the way in 
which he was to aid me? Nay, I childishly left it for him 
to point out the path, and then assist me to walk in it. As 
usual, too, I found my reliance well rewarded. We dis- 
cussed plan after plan, but everything was arranged at 
last in accordance with Sigismond’s first exclamation after 
I had put the question, “ How am I to see Coralie Le- 
sueur ? ” when he answered, slowly, “ One thing is certain 
— you cannot go there — as a woman.” 

That struck me like a knife; I felt my face paling. 
Sigismond regarded me earnestly, and said, very gently, 
“ Frightened already ? Ah ! m’amowr, you are so true a 
woman. How will you ever go through with it ? ” 

The blood surged back, covering neck and brow with 
crimson. Oh, faint-hearted ! how is this ? But I looked 
up at my good genius, and said, “ It is because I am en- 
deavoring to be a true woman, that I will go through with 
it.” “ Deo volentey^ he added softly, and we passed out of 
the room together. 

It has been the custom of many to ridicule what is 
called “ newspaper poetry.” But I cannot tell you what 
great things a short “ newspaper ” poem did for me that 
day. I cannot express to you how it nerved and energized 
me ; and still I bless the unknown writer, whoever she may 
be — for I know the words came from a woman. To this 


58 


MY ROSES. 


day I thank her for the added power she then bestowed on 
me, and for the gladness at my heart to know that at least 
one other woman in the world could feel as I did. I had gone 
up to my chamber after dinner, carrying with me some of 
the morning journals. There, while all alone, the struggle 
came back upon me. How could I dare go anywhere, if 
not “ as a woman ” ? I felt humiliated at the very thought 
of unsexing myself. Then I remembered how much Sigis- 
mond had given up in order to aid me, and I asked myself. 
Can I now go back ? ” To save myself from my own 
thoughts, I took up one of the papers — a Memphis journal, 
if I remember correctly — and read the brief poem which I 
quote below. It had a weird, haunting sound ; and, un- 
consciously, I connected it in my mind with the picture and 
Coralie. Should she, “one more unfortunate,” live still 
amid 

“ The fires unholy 
That scathe and stain”? 

Should the hour ever dawn that must see her “die de- 
graded,” with no ear save Heaven’s to hear the “soul- 
shriek, last and lonely,” as her lost spirit fled outward into 
the “unknown dark”? Never I oh, never! so help me 
God! 

The strange chiming of the strain took possession of me. 
I read it several times, and uow repeat it from memory. 
It runs thus : 


LEONORE. 

[In the cemetery of one of our Southern cities, there is a lonely 
monument bearing this inscription; “ The Child of Misfortune.”] 

Deeply the midnight knelleth 
O’er the wold : 

Hoarsely its echo swelleth 
Dull and cold, 


MY ROSES 


69 


Down where a dead heart dwelleth 
In the mould; 

They wail o’er woes unspoken, 

And implore 

Peace for the lost — heart-broken 
Leonore! 

Darkly the night-cloud scowleth, 

Hid from sight — 

Through it the old moon prowleth, 
Wan and white ; 

And the far tempest howleth 
Round the night. 

Owls high up in the haunted 
Sycamore 

Echo a name, wind -chanted — 

“ Leonore ! ” 

The spectral tombs grow dimmer: 
And the stone 

That marks the grave doth glimmer 
All alone. 

As star-beams o’er it shimmer — 
Then are gone. 

Thy soul-shriek last and lonely. 
From the shore 

Of Time, thy God heard only — ■ 
Leonore ! 

Up from the moaning river, 

Sounds of doom 

Knell to the shades that shiver 
Through the gloom ; 

Bowed where the yew-trees quivor 
O’er thy tomb. 

Closely the dank moss creepeth, 
Twining o’er 

Thy bosom as it sleepeth, 

Leonore! 


60 


MY ROSES. 


There, folds of darkness rustle 
Like a pall — 

There, ’mid the reed and thistle, 
Shadows fall; 

And the rude night-winds whistle 
Over all; 

Laughing to scorn the faded 
Days of yore 

That saw thee die, degraded, 
Leonore ! 

Dread as the fires unholy 
That scathe and stain. 

The plague-spot. Sin, burned slowly 
In heart and brain ; 

Till the soul’s light sank lowly 
As stars that wane. 

Oh ! shalt thou be forgiven 
Nevermore ? 

Nor find thy rest in heaven, 
Leonore ? 


CHAPTER V. 

THE ‘^MAISON DES BIJOUX.” 

And then the place — that bright, unholy place, 

Where Vice lay hid beneath each winning grace 
And charm of Luxury; as the viper weaves 
Its wily covering of sweet balsam-leaves — 

All struck upon my heart, sudden and cold 
As death itself. — It needs not to be told — 

No, no — I see it all — plain as the brand 
Of burning shame can mark ; — whate’er the hand 
That could from Heaven and me such brightness sever, 
is done — to Heaven and me she ’s lost forever ! 

Moore. 

V ERGING upon dusk on Friday evening — and my 
faithful Ninette brought into my chamber three 
voluminous packages, sent up by Monsieur Sauvollee ; with 
this message : “ Make no unnecessary delay. I will await 
you in the drawing-room.” I cannot pause now to attempt 
a description or detail of the various conflicting feelings 
which assailed me “ in force,” as I, with Ninette’s assistance, 
appropriated the contents of the packages, for the purpose 
of transforming myself, for the time being, into a slender 
and elegant — young gentleman. At last, amid the ad- 
miring exclamations of the maid, (who was in my confi- 
dence,) my toilette was completed. Everything was comme 
ilfaut, from the slender boot to the embroidered neck-tie ; 
from the dainty glove and small switch of a cane, to the 
unexceptionable chapeau de Paris. My hair, being already 
short, was soon tangled into a mass of most boyish curls 
6 61 


62 


MY ROSES. 


by the deft fingers of my maid ; and adjusting a delicate 
false moustache into what we conceived to be its proper 
position, I sent Ninette to extinguish the hall lamps, lest I 
might be seen by some of the servants passing about the 
house. And then, chapeau in hand, half elated and half 
confused, I descended to the drawing-room. I felt my 
cheeks glow, and the blush mounted to my forehead as I 
opened the door. Sigismond, though awaiting me, gave an 
involuntary start of surprise as I confronted him. Then 
laughing, he drew me between the tall mirrors, walked 
round me several times, and exclaimed, Admirably 
done! Adroitement ! Ma belle, who has educated you 
faire le heauf Monsieur, I have the honor to present 
my congratulations upon your very masculine appearance. 
Not quite so stiff, if you please ; just a trifle more d^un air 
d^gage : there, that is excellent ; you make an admirable 
petit maitre, Monsieur Henri. Shall we go ? Stay : you 
know well enough how to use this ; just as well put it in 
your side-pocket, there.” 

“You don’t expect to need these?” I asked, with some 
surprise, as I took the pistol he handed me, (my own, by 
the way,) and glanced at another which he was thrusting 
into the bosom of his vest. 

“ No, I don’t expect it,” he replied, quietly ; “ but 
there ’s no telling, when a man walks into a hornet’s nest, 
but that he may be stung. These little things are very 
convenient at times — better than cold steel — greatly to 
be preferred, I think.” 

“ I cannot see that we need either, mon cher Sigismond,” 
I answered. 

He laughed gayly, and said, “ Perhaps, monsieur, it may 
be as well for me to caution you. I am not now either 
‘ mo7i cher,' or ‘ Sigismond.’ I have the distinguished honor 
to present to your acquaintance the Senor d’ Alvarez — 


MY ROSES. 63 

for this occasion only, as they say in the play-bills ; and 
may I inquire what patronymic you have adopted ? ” 

“ I had not thought of this before ; but one must have 
a name. Let mine, upon this occasion, be Monsieur Henri 
d’Herbelot ; my mother’s name was D’Herbelot.” 

“ Perhaps that is a reason why you should not use it at 
present,” he said, musingly. “ It is a noble name.” 

“ You do not suppose that I intend to dishonor it ? ” I ex- 
claimed, while the blood shot up into my cheek, and burned 
there like liquid flame. “ No, Sigismond ; you do not think 
that. Rest .assured that I shall do no deed for which I 
should blush to bear my mother’s noble name, or on which 
I should fear to ask her angel blessing.” 

“ I know that, amour. Take the name, though I con- 
fess that to me it sounds too much like your own. In this 
expedition I seem to wish to forget that you are Henriette 
d’Hauterive. But we are wasting time. Allons ! ” And 
we sallied forth. Avoiding the more frequented and fash- 
ionable thoroughfares, after turning a few squares, we 
struck oflf* to the right, and half an hour’s walk brought 
us directly in front of the “ Maison des Bijoux.” 

A tall, olive-complexioned lackey answered our ring. 
We presented our cards for Mademoiselle Coralie Lesueur, 
and immediately were ushered into a stately salorij blazing 
with light, and more than half filled with groups of elabo- 
rately dressed women, and easy, rather insouciant cavaliers. 
For a moment my purpose, my strong will^ even my senses, 
seemed deserting me. I felt the blood forsake my face, 
my heart appeared to lose its throb, and, oh I I would 
have given a kingdom (had it been mine) to have been able 
to grasp Sigismond’s hand. I felt faint in that atmosphere 
overladen with perfumes. In that dazzling light, dark 
visions of fear and horror came crowding upon my brain ; 


64 


MY ROSES. 


my breathing became thick and labored, and involuntarily 
I stretched out my hand to grasp that of my companion. 

“ Courage! courage I am I not with you ? he found oppor- 
tunity to whisper hurriedly, as he indicated a vacant seat 
near an open window, shaded by heavy curtains. I sank, 
very nearly fell, upon the low divan in this recess, while 
he took a chair opposite, thus placing himself between me 
and the company. 

Gradually I took courage. From my half-sheltered nook 
I looked forth, and found sense to separate and see the 
groups before me. The salon was a very large and hand- 
some apartment, elaborately adorned and richly furnished. 
Carpets of velvet covered the floor, vases of rare flowers 
were placed here and there, a grand piano occupied one 
corner, and the rainbow glitter of candelabra and chande- 
lier filled my eyes with a dazed and giddy pain. It seemed 
a hot, scorching light, like that of the meridian sun on 
desert sands, and seared its way deep into my eyeballs. 
One fair-browed, sentimental-looking creature, with shoul- 
ders whose polished contour struck oflT the light like a 
statue, and hair banded d la Grecque, sat at the piano ; her 
delicate, clear-cut profile was toward me, and I could not 
see the face of her attendant cavalier at all. The music 
was a new waltz, (one I had played myself that very day,) 
and to its liquid cadence two young girls were floating 
round the circle in a linked embrace, like fairy-footed 
Bayaderes. A laughing group (ah I what reckless laughter 
it was !) had formed around a marble table, and were en- 
gaged in some game at cards ; while another party, directly 
under the chandelier, were tossing ofi* glass after glass of 
foaming champagne. 

Among these I soon discovered the dark, splendid 
beauty and bold black eyes of the second portrait we 
had seen at Moisinett’s gallery. She was a blooming, 


MY ROSES. 


65 


striking, stylish-looking creature ; such as, amid the mu- 
sical footfalls of the ball-room, you could not but admire ; 
such as, in any other place than this, you might, per- 
chance, have loved. Her costume was a marvel of fit- 
ness and effect; and ere I was aware, I caught myself 
admiring her fearless air, her half defiant mirth, the bold, 
nonchalant grace of her attitudes, and the careless 
don of her dashing manner — never rude, and yet never 
womanly. And out of this rather questionable admira- 
tion a true and tender pity took root ; for, amid all her 
carelessness and recklessness, it seemed to me that she 
knew, and felt, that she was draining a cup of degrada- 
tion, brimming only with the lees of bitterness and bane. 
Her dark beauty seemed to me to feed and flourish in that 
voluptuous, pestilential atmosphere like some gorgeous trop- 
ical flower blooming grandly amid miasma and corrup- 
tion ; and yet I seemed to divine also that she well knew 
this same air only ripened in souls the seeds of destruction 
and decay. I believed that she could see, as well as I, 
the fierce passions of meit nurtured in that air; crouch- 
ing in the heart’s recesses like terrible wild beasts in the 
jungles, with eyes aflame and jaws agape, mad with rage 
and hungering for blood, hurrying off victim after victim 
to the subterranean dens of infamy, desolation, and de- 
spair ! True — to the outward eye, no danger was appa- 
rent. The poison-draught slept in a chalice of amber and 
gold ; the precipice was fringed with a thousand glowing 
and gorgeous blooms ; the abyss was veiled in clouds of 
rainbow light and bewildering beauty. To the passing 
traveller all seemed bloom and brightness, but I stood shiv- 
ering upon a brink I knew was there, looking down into 
deeps darkened by the “ blood of souls,” and with an icy, 
deadly shudder creeping into my very soul. 

Some five or ten minutes, perhaps, elapsed (though, in 
6 * 


66 


MY ROSES. 


truth, I cannot say how long was the time) while I sat 
thus, rallying back my failing courage, and reading, with 
dazed eyes and mystified brain, the scene before me. Then 
there came “ the silken rustle of a dress ” near us, and I 
looked up to see — the original of that bewitching pic- 
ture — the beautiful Coralie ? nay, but a tall woman, with 
pale hair, and eyes like twin blades of blue, glittering 
steel : a woman who announced herself as Madame Le- 
sueur, and invited us to follow her. Crossing the hall, 
she led us into a much smaller and much more elegant 
apartment than that which we had just quitted. 

“ Mademoiselle Coralie will see these gentlemen here, in 
my own private parlor,” she said, in a low, silky, premedi- 
tated tone, addressing herself to me, while she pierced me 
through with those steely eyes. “ Mademoiselle, my niece” 
she emphasized, “never receives visitors in the salon;” 
then, with an insinuating air, “ Addio, senor; adieu, mon- 
sieur,” amid a profusion of courtesies and well-made smiles, 
the mistress of the mansion withdrew. 

“Did you observe how she looked at me?” I whispered 
to Sigismond. 

“ I did, en verity” he replied. “ What sharp, hungry 
eyes she has ! I never saw such in the head of mortal be- 
fore. They dig into your heart after secrets, but they tell 
nothing of her own.” 

“ Do you think it possible she could have penetrated my 
disguise ? ” I murmured, shuddering. 

“No! no! surely not. You are an exquisite young 
gentleman. If you don’t believe me, walk over to the 
mirror there and reassure yourself. You are young, in- 
experienced — a stranger to such scenes as these : she sees 
that. Corragio ! you must not grow nervous, mignonne, or 
everybody will suspect you. Hush ! here comes some one 
— be composed, my darling, I am with you,” he whispered 


MY ROSES. 


67 


hurriedly — in his solicitude forgetting his own caution to 
me concerning the rigid sustaining of our incognito. At 
that moment the door swung open, and Coralie, lovely as a 
poet’s dream, appeared. 

“ It was the hour for angels : there stood ” — mine. 

She was accompanied by Madame Lesueur, who pre- 
sented us ; and then retiring to a small sofa at the farther 
end of the apartment, very quietly seated herself there ; and 
taking up a periodical which lay on a table near her, feigned 
to read, sheathing the sword-blades of her eyes in the 
printed page. I knew it was feigning all; I knew that 
she was watching me — “hawking at me with her hungry 
eyes ; ” and the thought was such an incubus upon my 
spirit that I could not be myself ; that is to say, I could 
not satisfactorily play my part. “ What was it she was 
observing in me? Why had she returned, after hav- 
ing bid us ‘ adieu ’ but five minutes before ? ” 

Monsieur Sauvollee w’as, as usual, entire master of him- 
self. He even appeared capable of forgetting where we were, 
and entered into an animated conversation with Coralie, 
while I — I, as though I had been in truth a lover, sat 
drinking in deep, intoxicating draughts of beauty, in al- 
most total silence. Ah ! how exceedingly lovely she was, 
as she sat there in her white gossamer robes, in that sump- 
tuous chamber with its silken hangings, its glittering mir- 
rors, its carpets like glowing mosses, its air of fragrance, 
and its light — which was not simply a light, but a radiance, 
soft and warm as the stray beams which, in our dreams, 
come stealing from the pearly gates of paradise. The 
rosebuds on her bosom, freshly culled, and with drops of 
evening dew in their half-unfolded hearts, seemed not to 
me more fresh and pure and sinless than did she who wore 
them. She was an incarnation of all the visible harmonies 
of grace — an embodiment of all the exquisite beauties of 


68 


MY ROSES. 


June. Her brow was snowy as its clouds ; her cheek had 
the soft flush of its roses ; her voice was full of a rich, 
penetrating sweetness, like the melody of its morning 
birds ; and her eyes were of a deep, delicious, soul-bewil- 
dering blue, seeming as full of starry light as is the June 
sky at midnight. Surely, these were not 

“Eyes of most unholy blue — ” 

nay ; but there was, ever and anon, looking out from those 
large and lustrous orbs a spirit of melancholy inquiry — a 
something that seemed to be watching and waiting, yet 
still searching eagerly and eternally for some great good 
or glory it had lost ; yet, the soft light and warmth — the 
divine atmosphere of young Love appeared to float ever 
about her : it shone in her sunny ringlets ; it fell in the 
flow of her robe ; it frolicked in every graceful motion ; 
and it slept, with the white roses, on her bosom. That 
triumphant, yet half-unconscious beauty seemed to me 
as though it might have been nourished on Psestum 
roses; the delicate spirit which animated it might have 
known no companionship save that of gentle, smiling 
children ; and the heart which gave to the whole nature 
its baptism of “fire and dew,” was assuredly a crystal 
chalice 

“ With bright nectar overrun 

From the wine-vats of the sun.” 

Do my words appear to you enthusiastic ? exaggerated ? 
do you deem them too strong in outline — too vivid in col- 
oring ? Alas ! I can but give you the brown chrysalis ; 
the Psyche on golden wings flutters ever above me — es- 
capes my eager grasp — mocks me with its inexpressible 
beauty. I could but exclaim within my heart, when I 
looked upon the living Coralie, as did one when enrap- 
tured with the glowing loveliness of Italy : “ Ah ! God 


MY ROSES. 


69 


must have brooded longer over this, than any other of his 
creations on the face of the world ! ” 

But, I must not linger thus. The hour was not late — 
perhaps something past eleven — when we made our adieus 
to the beautiful “ bijou,” to the eyes of Madame Lesueur, 
and also to her sumptuously kept “House of the Jewels.” 
As we passed rapidly down Dauphine, Sigismond called 
my attention to a dark object, seated, or rather fallen 
across the broken curbstone. This sight, after all the 
light and luxury of the scenes we had just left, sent a new 
pallor to my lip and tremor to my heart. The wan lamp- 
light from the window of a low dwelling-house in front of 
which she had fallen, revealed to us something having the 
appearance of the very Hecate of hags. Thick darkness 
all around her but just where that pallid ray was falling, 
we saw a crouching figure — a heap of rags, crowned with 
a loathsome, bloated, passion-harrowed face ; such a pic- 
ture of demoralization, of brutalization rather, as I had 
never in my life before beheld, and pray I never may 
again. It was a vision of poverty in its most abject phase, 
of wretchedness in its most revolting form, of vice and 
misery in their lowest depths of degradation and despair. 

“ Is it dead ? ” I whispered, catching my breath with 
difficulty, as we paused a moment. 

“ I cannot tell, certainly. Ought I not to speak to her ? 
to call assistance, or the police ? I think it ’s a woman ; 
the poor, old creature may be dying here in the open 
street,” said Sigismond, after we had passed on a few paces. 
“ I will speak to her, at least,” he continued, retracing 
his steps. I followed him. “ My good woman, what is the 
matter?” he asked kindly, as the head was raised at our 
approach, and we saw, by the elf-locks straggling round her 
face, that it was really a woman. “ Where is your home? 
What brings you here ? ” 


70 


MY EOSE8. 


In that pale light, I saw two fierce, wild, wicked eyes 
flash forth, lighting the^ whole ashen, sunken face, with a 
Pandemonian glare. “ ‘ Home ? ’ I have n’t a home ! ‘ What 
brought me here?”’ the hideous creature shrieked: “ what 
brought me here ? you say ; why, such as you ! Begone ! 
begone ! ” and she howled out upon our heads her horrid, 
frenzied curses, till the echo froze my very heart’s blood. 
We turned away, just as the door of the low dwelling 
opened, and we heard a rough voice exclaim, “ Shut up 

there, you ! ” Then Sigismond caught my arm, and, 

drawing it through his, hurried me away. 

He said not a word until we stood together under the 
waning light of the hall lamp at home. All was still ; the 
whole household appeared hushed in sleep. Then my 
good genius took me to his heart ; looked gravely down 
into my pale face ; laid back the clinging hair from my 
forehead, and kissed me, twice. My head fell upon his 
shoulder, and a few tears stole over my cheek ; not so much 
for what had passed, but for the joy of being safe at home 
again ; and with him. 

“ It was much too hard for you, ma mignonne,^’ he said, 
with a tremor in his voice. “I feared it would be so ; you 
are unnerved ; and it is not to be wondered at. I would 
have spared you all this, my Henriette. It was my 
earnest wish that you should know nothing of this 
wretched phase of life. But you insisted ; and you have, 
by accident, seen it both in its highest and lowest grade ; 
you have seen the beginning and the end. And the years 
that intervene are very few. That poor, drunken, half- 
crazed creature we have just passed, is not old, but misery 
and crime have done for her the work of long, long years. 
She will die in the gutter, and in a short time many of 
Lesueur’s beautiful ‘ mock-diamonds ’ will take her present 
place. More than I can tell you, I regret that you have 


MY ROSES. 


71 


seen these things : it was not necessary. Good women need 
not know — ” 

“ But I do not regret it, my best friend,” I answered, in 
a low voice. “ It is far better that I should know — after 
a little I shall bear such knowledge better. And, perhaps, 
if * good women ’ generally knew more of the misery that 
lies around them, they would be more earnest in their 
endeavors to save some of their own sex who may have 
‘ stooped to folly.’ Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ It is very possible that you are right : you are often 
that way,” he replied, with a grave smile. “ But — here’s 
Ninette coming down ; she has been waiting for you. You 
are a good girl, Ninon ; take your mistress to her room, 
and see that you make her pillows easy, and that she goes 
to sleep directly. It is past midnight — good night, ma 
belle amante,^ and he left me at the foot of the stairs. 

How fresh, and cool, and pure my own dear chamber 
appeared, as I entered it, and how fervently I thanked 
God for a home that night ! But it was long after giving 
voice to that earnest, grateful prayer, before I fell asleep. 
I heard Ninette breathing calmly in her untroubled slum- 
ber on her little couch, in my dressing-room. My humble 
servitor slept the sweet sleep of a child ; but I, her proud, 
young mistress, had gone down into the sinful and sunless 
abodes of infamy, and the remembrance haunted me like 
some terrible spectre. It seemed as though the black 
arches of some dread inquisitorial hall had, a little while 
since, closed around me ; that I heard the shriek of tor- 
tured victims, the groan from lips clamped with iron, the 
crack of bones upon the rack ; the drip of blood on dun- 
geon floors, the fearful, desperate, and final “sharp cry, 
down oubliettes ! ” My soul, reeling in a great darkness, 
sighed piteously for the morning — for the white flowers and 
glad sunshine of a time when all these things were things 


72 


MY ROSES. 


undreamed of. I longed to go back once more and rest 
awhile in my child’s ignorance and innocence. And then, 
feeling that this could never be, I panted to ascend again 
into the clear upper brightness of high-hearted womanhood; 
to be myself, as I had been but yesterday. But dare I do 
this, leaving her behind, amid the shadows of an “ outer 
darkness,” to watch and wail there for evermore ? Not so 
— even in the “thick and press” of mental conflict which 
I was now undergoing, I felt that if I could go back and 
be my former self again, without her, I would not do it. 
I meant to go on, despite of Fate ; and I felt confident of 
Sigismond’s co-operation and assistance. With his help, 
and God’s help, I could do “ all things.” He had opposed 
me at first, but when he promised aid, he gave it, and that 
with free heart and generous hand. He was large-hearted, 
like a true woman — liberal-minded, like a real man. He 
was not, in brief, one of those 

“ Good Christians who sit still in easy-chairs, 

And damn the general world for standing up ; ” 

and so I felt that I could rely upon him in this as in all 
things. For such a friend, my soul in sweetest gratitude 
exclaimed, “ Blessed be God ! the giver of every good and 
perfect gift.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN CARROLLTON GARDENS. 

Sunbeams, like draughts of rich, delicious wine. 

Come rippling down through amber-colored clouds, 
Waking the earth to one exultant song. 

While fruits and flowers spring up in glittering crowds ; 
Magnolia-blooms light up the twilight woods. 

Their creamy blossoms showering rich around j 
While orange-blooms fling down their crowns of gold 
In princely largesse to the waiting ground. 


M. E. B, 


Time rules us all. And life is not 

The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead ; 

And then; we women cannot choose our lot. 

— Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; 
Much given away which it were sweet to keep — 
God help us all ! 


Julia Ward Howe. 


I 



HEN can we see you again, mademoiselle ? ” I had 


» » inquired of Coralie, just as we were about depart* 
ing from the “Maison des Bijoux.” She did not reply 
just at the moment; but Madame Lesueur, who had 
crossed the room as we rose to leave, said, in her smooth, 
satiny way, w^hile she impaled me with her eyes : “ Shall 
I answer for you, mademoiselle ? You will go to Carroll- 
ton to-morrow morning — you and la helle Marguerite.” 

“And shall I have the pleasure of meeting you there?” 
I asked, still addressing Coralie. She blushed, and I 
imagined would have been glad to bow consent, yet she 
did not. Evidently she was confused at the thought of an 


t 


74 


MY ROSES. 


appointment ” with a gentleman. Madame decided the 
case in her adroit way. *‘Les demoiselles are under apromise 
to go to Carrollton to-morrow morning — gentlemen visit 
the Gardens — sometimes they meet ladies — by accident 
merely,” and she concluded with a short, sharp laugh, 
which grated upon my sensibilities. I shrank away from 
it as one does from the dentist when he is filing a tender 
tooth. With this understanding we took our leave. There- 
fore “ Carrollton ” was the first thought which took posses- 
sion of my mind when I awoke in the morning. 

As I have said, it was late ere I could compose myself 
to sleep: the little pendule in my dressing-room struck 
three ; then I heard no more. I fell into a slumber, deep 
and dreamless, like that of the dead. It was, however, an 
exhausting rather than refreshing sleep; and when I awoke 
with “ the Gardens ” on my mind, it was also with a dull 
pain in my eyes, and a weary sense of languor, as if every 
limb were hung with fetters of lead. Before going down 
to breakfast I called Thomas, who was waiting at my 
father’s door, and inquired for his master. 

“ He had a bad night, mistus — bad dreams — talking 
all night long.” 

“ Knock, Thomas, and inquire whether I can see him ?” 

“Please, mistus, he’s dozed off — jis’ about half an hour 
back ; maybe he ’ll sleep a matter of five or six hours 
now,” said the man. 

“ Very well, Thomas ,* do not allow him to be wakened ; 
keep everything perfectly quiet, and I hope he may get a 
refreshing sleep. Are the shutters all closed ? ” 

“ Yes, mistus ; I ’ve fixed everything right. No danger 
of him wakin’ up now for some hours ; he took his — his 
drops, I mean.” 

“Drops! Is he taking medicine? has he called in a 
physician? has Eugene seen him? You have not done 


MY ROSES. 75 

well in concealing this from me, Thomas ! ” I exclaimed, 
with some impatience. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no, miss ! there ^s no doctor been sent" for, no 
medicines been tuk at all — jis master’s drops he’s been 
takin’ for years agone, when he can’t sleep, wich is wery 
often — poor master ! ” 

“ Oh, is that all ? ” I said, not wishing to exhibit any 
surprise in presence of the servant, though I felt it. “ Very 
well, Thomas ; keep all very still. I will see my father 
when he wakes ; ” and I glided softly past him and went 
down stairs. “ Drops ! drops ! ” I kept saying to myself ; 
“ tvhy, and for what ? * Takin’ for years agone ? ’ What 

does that mean ? ” I never knew my father to take medi- 
cines. Perhaps he might often have been suffering, and I 
knew nothing of it. It saddened me to think how long I 
had been with him -,- his daughter, and yet comparatively 
a stranger. Perhaps I had been remiss in my filial duty. 
True, he did not invite confidence ; but had I striven earn- 
estly enough, hopefully enough to gain it? Such ques- 
tionings of myself troubled me as I entered the breakfast- 
room, where I found Monsieur Sauvoll4e awaiting me, with 
the open morning papers lying in a cloud around his easy- 
chair. 

“ Late — very late, ma helle” he said, smiling, as I en- 
tered; then, in a moment, as I approached him, ‘‘How 
pale you are! You disobeyed orders, and did not go to 
sleep, as I insisted you should. I shall hold Ninon re- 
sponsible for this ; you are not well to-day, amanteJ’ 

“ Oh, yes I very well ! only slightly dormant. Come ; 
when I take some coffee, I shall be as wide awake as ever ; 
for we must run up to Carrollton this morning, you re-' 
member 1 ” 

“ Nay,” he answered ; “ I ’ll aid and abet your wild 
schemes no longer ; last night was too much for you. I 


76 


MY ROSES. 


will not have pallid cheeks and heavy eyes laid to my ac- 
count. Quel avantage en reviendrort-il f ” 

“ Some good will come of it — I cannot tell you just yet 
what it is to be,” I said. “ However, I do not think my 
face and eyes are at all affected by last night’s adventures. 
I am troubled about something else, Sigismond.” Then I 
went on, in my usual frank, confidential way, to tell him 
of the conversation which had just taken place between 
myself and Thomas, and that I feared I had not done all 
a daughter’s duty toward my father. 

Sigismond laughed outright as I concluded, exclaiming, 
“ Ouais ! will anybody only listen to that ! Let a woman 
alone for tormenting herself, and making her conscience a 
Fakir’s bed of spikes ! As the ploughman poet has it, 

‘ When nae real ills perplex them, 

They make enough themselves to vex them ! * 

To hear you talk, fleur-de-lis, one would suppose that you 
had committed the ‘ seventy ’ and eighth sin, for which for- 
giveness is not commanded. Let me, however, absolve 
you. Let me assure you that you have been and are a duti- 
ful daughter, doing all that you were allowed to do. As 
to monsieur your father’s medicine, believe me, that is 
just nothing at all. Some simple sedative or nervine ; his 
having used it for years with no perceptible effect is suffi- 
cient proof of its innocuousness. Allons, m’ amour; we 
must really go forth in search of something new as a source 
of trouble. What shall it be?” and again he laughed 
cordially. 

His gay manner was sincere — therefore it was effective ; 
dt was contagious, too, and I gave him back some of his 
smiles, as I replied : “ We can easily find a fountain of 
trouble, and perhaps we shall gather some tears from it 
also, if you persist in refusing to go with me to the Gardens 


MY EOSES. 


77 


this morniDg. There are some new flowers in bloom there, 
which I wish to examine,” I added, as a servant, entering 
with the hot toast, overheard my last remark. 

“Oui; two new flowers — both very brilliant — the one 
a rose, the other * ashes of rose.’ Very well, I am at your 
command for to-day, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Sau- 
voll4e, as he sipped his cafi noir. After breakfast he came 
up to me and said, sotto voce: “ Anything to bring back the 
roses to your cheek and the life to your eye ; the fresh air 
at Carrollton will probably do it. Let us not delay, how- 
ever, as it is near ten now, and a train leaves at half-past. 
Can we be ready for it?” he asked, looking at his watch. 

“ Certainly.” 

“Well, where’s Ninon? Let her bring your hat and 
mantle, while I — ” but just at that moment he bethought 
himself of the incognito, and whispered, as a quick color 
flashed up to his forehead : “ Ah ! you can’t do it, Henri- 
ette; you can’t possibly go out in daytime in that way. 
How, in the name of all masquerading, could you leave the 
house ? ” 

I thought a few moments. It was clear to me that if I 
did not go en cavalier^ I could not go at all. Then I said 
promptly, “I will risk it. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing 
have.’ Go to the ‘ Old Date Tree,’ at the corner of Orleans 
and Dauphine ; in half an hour I will meet you there. Au 
revoir,’* and I ran up stairs wonderfully brightened by the 
excitement of anticipation and necessity to be “ up and 
doing.” With the assistance of my good Ninette, I speed- 
ily accomplished what I had promised, and Monsieur Sau- 
vollee half started to see me coming up to meet him as he 
approached the lonely Date Tree. 

“is it you ? and where did you spring from? I confess 
I had no idea that you would really meet me here,” he 
laughed, looking into my eyes to assure himself it was 

7 ^ 


78 


MY ROSES. 


“ mignonne en verite” as he said. “ Ay 1 those eyes belong 
to ‘ I’ame de joieJ Votre serviteur, Monsieur d’Herbelot. 
What a dashing young chevalier you make, to be sure ! I 
can see no reason why you may not carry off the heart of 
this pretty ‘ ashes of rose.’ That would be an odd denoil- 
ment to your adventures, Monsieur Henri.” And his play- 
ful remark set me to thinking. I was a very passable 
young genfleman — there was no denying the fact ; my 
cheval-glass said so over and over again. Very youthful, 
and a trifle effeminate — mats, n’importe. Suppose that 
Coralie Lesueur should — yes, should love me in my assumed 
character, and that, through the holy influence of that love, 
I should be able to lead her into a better life? Might not 
the way to save her be opening up before me? The dis- 
guise was a cross to me; I blushed crimson when I put it 
on ; but I had adopted it per force, as nothing else would 
serve for a visit to the “Maison des Bijoux.” Would it 
not be better for me to keep up the deception still, and see 
what would come of it? True, the longer it was retained, 
the more difficult and embarrassing would be the ^clair- 
cissement which must take place at last. For the present, 
I had no alternative ; things must take their course. My 
cogitations were brought to a sudden stop by our arrival at 
the station. We took our seats, and a pleasant run of a 
few minutes brought us to Carrollton. 

“ Will you have an ice or a prime Havana, Monsieur 
Henri?” inquired Sigismond, smiling, as we passed in 
front of the hotel. The long galleries were crowded with 
gentlemen loungers — smoking, chatting, or reading the 
morning journals. I felt, for a few moments, when I 
stepped off the train, directly in front of all that company, 
as though every eye was upon me ; as though every one 
penetrated my disguise, and knew that I was the proud 
Creole belle — last scion of the house of De Hguterjve. 


MY ROSES. 


79 


Passing my . arm within that of my companion, apparently 
in a playful, bon-camarade style — but in reality for support 
— we passed the galleries as nonchalantly as possible; 
turning away at once into the broad walks that interlaced 
each other among the trees and shrubbery. 

“ Monsieur ! there are your new floral discoveries,” ex- 
claimed M. Sauvollee, nodding toward the left. I followed 
his indication : — there they were, sure enough. The 
“ rose ” stood at a cross-walk, coquetting in her sultana- 
like way with three young “ exquisites ” of the haut toriy 
(two of whom I knew ;) the “ ashes of rose ” was walking 
leisurely down a vista beyond — and alone. 

“ The gods are propitious,” I quoted, looking at Sigis- 
mond. “Yes — now ’s your time, darling ; go on, and en- 
gage her in conversation, while the other is occupied. I 
will not accompany you in the character of Monsieur de 
trop ; I will walk back to the hotel, for I am perishing for a 
cigar ; and, one hour hence, will be at the fountain waiting 
for you. Walk with your protegee in that direction, so that 
w^hen I arrive I may feel that you are not far from me. I 
almost fear to lose sight of you, though. But go — make 
good use of your one hour, for you must not overstay that 
time, or I shall be in horrors of suspense.” He looked 
into my eyes encouragingly, pressed my hand, and turned 
back. I walked quickly on, avoiding Marguerite and her 
admirers, and overtook my “ashes of rose.” A faint 
color flushed both cheek and brow as I accosted her with 
the usual salutations of the morning, and then, with an 
easy grace which was all her own, she talked to me, as we 
sauntered along the smooth walks in the direction of the 
fountain — penetrating deeper into the greenery of the Gar- 
dens. In a very few minutes I looked back — we had lost 
sight of every one. We were at no great distance from the 
spot designated by Sigismond ; I approached Coralie, drew 


80 


MY EOSES. 


her arm within my own, and led her into the thick shadow, 
where there stood a rustic seat, overhung by long, flexile, 
drooping boughs. She was flushed and startled, looking 
at me wonderingly, as I seated her there, and, as is my 
wont, plunged at once into medias res. 

Pardon me ; I love you, and I have but one hour to 
spend with you. In that time I am anxious* to learn all I 
can of you — of your heart and history. You see, I do 
not go to others for information ; I come directly to your- 
self. Do not be surprised at my frank address ; if I am 
abrupt, forgive it. Do not fear me, but tell me as frankly 
all about yourself. Can you trust me, mademoiselle ? ” 

“Yes,” she said, slowly, repressing her agitation, while 
the sad expression deepened on her face, and the curved 
lip quivered a very little. “ Y es, I will — I do trust you. 
You carry truth in your eyes, and you do not address me as 
men usually speak to us — with honeyed words, which are 
such a mockery; with compliments, which are so humili- 
ating. You speak honestly, even to me; as though you 
might have a good mother, and for her sake could not for- 
get to respect her sex. Perhaps, if I had had such a 
mother I should not this day be — what I am.” 

Ah! how beautiful she was to me then, as these sad 
words came sighing from her lips, and large tears stood in 
her eyes of “ heaven’s own delicious blue ! ” I looked at 
her through tears too, (remembering all the while how U7i~ 
manly it was,) and it was a lovely picture I saw through 
those “diamond lenses.” Her costume was as faultless 
as her beauty. The hat, of some snowy material, with a 
blush-rose and lilies of the valley dropping over the brim, 
was no longer an article of attire, but a part of her. The 
shawl of rich lace had fallen away from her shoulders, 
and the silken sheen of the quiet “ashes of roses” fell and 
flowed away in shining folds around a form such as, in 


MY ROSES. 


81 


other days, awoke the Spirit of Beauty in the souls of 
Phidias and Canova. As I sat there beside her, under the 
June skies, an indefinable emotion took possession of me ; 
the same feeling which enthralled me when I first looked 
upon her portrait in Moisinett’s gallery. Into her face — 
that sweet, pure face — I gazed with an eager, panting, 
insatiate longing ; struggling to solve that something which, 
in the picture and in the face, so fascinated me ; and, in 
doing this, I grew dizzy and bewildered, and for a few 
blind moments lost myself. In striving to rescue this 
something (whatever it was) from the deeps of the un- 
known and incomprehensible, my brain seemed to reel, and 
my heart to give out a wild cry, like that of 

“ Some strong swimmer in his agony.” 

When I would follow some thought-clue on and on, in the 
ever vain efibrt to grasp that ignis fatuus, down into a void 
of nothingness it sank — lost, all lost — the very thought 
from which it sprang utterly annihilated ! 

The tones of a distant cathedral bell roused me — recalled 
me to myself — admonished me that time was flying. 

‘‘ But your life, your present life, Coralie, is it a happy 
one ? I asked, hurriedly. She raised her large, mournful 
eyes to mine, and repeated, “ Happy? ” 

It was as if some lost angel in the far deeps of an 
“ outer darkness ” had murmured in his dream, “ Heaven ? 
There was in it a questioning, a despairing doubt whether 
there could be any such thing in existence. Then, in a 
more cheerful tone, she resumed, “ Let me not be ungrate- 
ful. Let me still thank Heaven that I am not so — so old 
in this wretched life as some. It is not so much what it is, 
as what it may be to me, that renders me most miserable — 
at times. As yet, I have seen only the sunny side; its lux- 
uries, its pleasures, its gayeties ; but oh ! I know there is 


82 


MY ROSES. 


another side, and the thought makes me shudder. I know, 
too, how the world regards me, and that is bitter, bitter ! I 
have longed for something which could lift me out of and 
beyond this weary life, as one might sigh for angels’ wings 
to bear him far above this earth, into a heaven of which he 
has only heard and dreamed.” 

“ And you would leave this life, were it in your power?” 
I cried, fixing my eyes intently upon hers. 

“ Ah ! why should I not ? ” she asked, sadly. “ Does the 
worm refuse the golden wings which make it such as that?” 
she added, pointing to a splendid butterfly which floated 
gayly past us. “I have nothing to lose, everything to 
gain, by such a change.” 

“ Why, then, dearest Coralie, in the name of high 
heaven, why do you not make this change ? Why do you 
not shake ofif the fitters which bind you to a base life, and 
rise triumphant into a purer world — a virtuous woman- 
hood?” 

“You talk like a man now, sir,” she answered, mourn- 
fully. “You forget, as men are apt to do, that you are 
talking to a woman. Were you in my place, it would be 
an easy task to you thus to ‘ cast ofl* the fetters which bind 
you. to a base life ; ’ but with me the case is difierent — 
darkly, bitterly so. The world would offer you its hand, 
assisting you to rise ; the world would set its iron heel upon 
my neck, for the mere attempt to rise.” 

“Not so — not so : you would find a thousand friends to 
help you ! ” I asserted. 

“ I have lived eighteen years, and I have never, as yet, 
found even one of that thousand,” she replied, with a dash 
of bitterness in her low, melancholy tones. 

“ You have at least found one,” I again asserted, mean- 
ingly. 

“ And you are he ? ” she inquired. 


MY EOSES. 


83 


“ By all my hopes of heaveo, yes — if you will allow me 
to be so. God knows how gladly I will be that friend to 
you — how willingly I will serve you ! ” 

She looked up into my face for some moments — reading 
it thoroughly, as young children do ofttimes ; then, with- 
out withdrawing her gaze, laid her small hand in mine, 
and said, with the sweetest sincerity, “ I do believe you. 
Monsieur d’Herbelot.” Instantly, however, as if recol- 
lecting herself, she added, with a sigh, “ How Marguerite 
would laugh at me for saying so ! ” 

“ Why should she laugh at you ? Who and what is 
Marguerite ? ” I asked. 

“ Ah ! you don’t know la belle Marguerite ? She is a 
woman who has no belief in anything; and that is why she 
would laugh at the confidence I place in you. Marguerite 
believes ‘not man, nor woman either;’ — though I have 
heard her say that if there be any difference between right 
and wrong — if what men call ‘ right ’ wins heaven — 
and IF indeed there be a heaven at all — she thinks, per- 
haps, that I may go there ! If she believed in anything, 
that exception would be — myself. We are companions — 
I had almost said ‘friends;’ but that is a word so much 
abused. Madame Lesueur wishes it so; we form (she 
says) so fine a tableau vivant. We are associates, yet very 
diflTerent. Marguerite is three years my senior — she has, 
alas that I should say it! she has taken the last irre- 
vocable step in error from which the tendency is ever — 
downward. I am an unfortunate creature — but, thank 
God, despite the sphere in which I live, an innocent one. 
And, come what may, so I will die ! ” 

“ Swear to me ! ” I uttered, in a voice that was almost a 
sob, shaken to my heart’s deep centre by her joy-inspiring 
words — “ Swear to me, by the stainless heaven above us. 
that your words are true ! ” 


84 


MY ROSES. 


“ Why should I swear ? It is only truth,” she said, 
solemnly. “ Could I sit here and talk to you of a better 
life, if I had once passed the burning gate of shame, and 
heard it clos^ for aye behind me ? Could I then dare to 
raise my eyes to a purer day, while that ‘ gloom of glooms ’ 
encompassed me forever? Dare I ever again hope for 
myself, having once passed that portal on whose iron arch 
is written, ‘Leave Hope behind thee? ’ ” She spoke hur- 
riedly, excitedly, carried completely away by her feelings. 
And I? Tears, rejoicing tears rained down my face: over- 
mastered by the impulse of the moment, I clasped her to 
my throbbing heart. My woman’s soul rose triujnphant 
then ; I forgot,, in my unutterable joy and thankfulness, 
that I was wearing a character not my own — that I was 
not (apparently) Henriette de Hauterive, but Henri 
d’Herbelot! Heavens! what was I doing? I realized 
my mistake instantly, as Coralie, in a glow of confusion, 
quickly disengaged herself ; then I blushed quite as vio- 
lently as she, and we sat facing each other, utterly con- 
fused and silent — but from what different causes ! She 
was the first to speak — when she had time to thinks she 
Avas not offended. Looking at me frankly, with an almost 
childlike sweetness, she said softly, “You weep, sir — 
weep for me : therefore I trust you.” 

“ Oh I trust me wholly — trust me ever ! ” I exclaimed. 
“ I weep, it is true ; and it is womanly to weep, is it not ? 
But mine are happy tears ; you have given me tidings of 
‘ exceeding joy.’ ” 

“ Yes,” she said, slowly, as if talking to herself, “ you 
talk like a man, but you feel like a woman. You have a 
man’s tongue, but a woman’s heart, monsieur.” 

“ Then will you not trust me, dearest Coralie ? Tell me 
your history — let me read your heart,” I said, taking up 


MY ROSES. 


86 


gently the little gloved hand which lay upon the iron 
railing of our seat. 

“ I have nothing strange to tell you, my friend,” she re- 
plied. “ I am called the niece of Madame Lesueur, and 
I bear her name. Doubtless I am in the wrong when I 
have devoutly wished there were no ties of blood between 
us. I have no right — no reason to hope this. Frankly 
I tell you that I have this feeling — that 1 cannot help 
it ; at the same time, I confess that it is ungrateful, for 
Madame Lesueur has been very kind to me. I do not 
remember a time when I was anything but her niece, 
though she evades all my questions respecting my parents. 
It must have been that my father and her husband were 
brothers, as I am called Lesueur. I was educated as a 
lady’s child ought to be, at the convent of the Sacred 
Heart, and madame my aunt has engaged masters for 
me since my return to her house. She indulges me, now, 
very greatly — never having asked me to do anything for 
which a woman should blush ; that is, if I can judge cor- 
rectly — but perhaps I cannot. She insists sometimes upon 
my doing things which are disagreeable to me personally, 
as, for instance, to ride with Monsieur Berthel and receive 
his passing attentions. I acknowledge that Monsieur Ber- 
thel is not agreeable to me, though he appears to endeavor 
to make himself so ; nor could I exactly explain to you 
why I do not like him. He has much influence over my 
aunt — neither can I explain why this is so. I heard her 
say to herself this morning, ‘ They can go to Carrollton ; 
Berthel has gone across the lake.’ She did not know I 
ov-erheard her remark : I had just entered her room — she 
was passing through a side door into the balcony. What 
misfortunes may be in the future for me, I cannot tell — 
of course, I have my hours of wretchedness and fear, 
anticipating them. As yet, Madame- has been kind to 
8 


MY ROSES. 


me; I am not obliged to associate with those who frequent 
the salon, but I often appear in public with Marguerite ; 
and this is by my aunt’s special desire. I meet gentlemen 
frequently in her own parlor — always in her presence, 
however, except twice, when M. Berthel called upon me in 
company with two other gentlemen. And, monsieur my 
friend, this is all.” 

“ That is all ? ” I said to myself : truly it seemed plain 
and matter-of-fact enough. Somehow, I was convinced 
against my will, too, that this was not “ all.” It was all 
that Coral ie knew, I felt assured ; still there was some- 
thing “ behind the scenes.” I must study it out. 

“ Why did Madame Lesueur scrutinize me so keenly last 
evening ? ” I asked, thinking to put Coralie off her guard, 
if indeed she were guarding herself at all. 

“ I do not know why, sir. I noticed that she regarded 
you closely — she often does this when she is anxious to 
‘ read ’ a person, as she says. But she is a keen woman, 
and studies people with much skill. I think she is pleased 
with you ; she was anxious that we should come to Carroll- 
ton this morning ; when we left, she called me aside and 
said : 

“ * Should you meet M. d’ Herbelot, give him your 
smiles; ’ and then she called over your name twice, appear- 
ing to ponder on it.” Coralie spoke with frankness. I had 
no reason to doubt her. 

“ Oui, she is a keen woman, and, if I mistake not, a 
deep one — perhaps dangerous, also,” I remarked. 

“ Do not judge her harshly, monsieur,” pleaded the 
soft, low voice at my side. “ Circumstances, perhaps, have 
made her what she is. All the women in her sphere of 
life are not the hardened and wicked creatures which, 
doubtless, you imagine them. There, for example, is Mar- 
guerite — a woman utterly without confidence in anything 


MY ROSES. 


87 


human : a woman who will not believe that men are ever 
actuated save by some sordid or selfish motive ; a woman 
who scoffs at the very name of truth, and love : why, I 
have seen her throw off* her rich cloak in the streets to 
wrap it round a sick and shivering sewing-girl, who, she 
would say, with a scornful laugh, was ‘ trying to keep hon- 
est, and starving body and soul by it.’ I have seen her 
spend her last dollar for bread for poor, famished children, 
whom she met in the streets. One evening last winter — 
soon after I came from the convent — we went out for 
a promenade; and returning, when nearly opposite the 
Cemetery, we met a beggar-child with a beautiful Italian 
face, bareheaded, and limping along the cold pavement 
with bare, brown feet, one of which was bleeding, marking 
the stones at every step. ‘ God help me ! ’ exclaimed 
Marguerite, as her eye fell upon him ; ‘ that child is the 

image of .’ The name escaped me, or she did not 

say it aloud ; but she stopped before him, stooped down, 
and bound up his foot with her embroidered handkerchief ; 
took off* her fine, heavy shawl, and wrapped it around 
him ; gave. him a half-eagle, which was all she had in her 
pocket at the time, and said vehemently, with her eyes full 
of tears, ‘Now go — go ; and never let me see you again.’ 
And yet Marguerite declares that she has no belief in any- 
thing that is good, or generous, or disinterested. No, mon- 
sieur, do not judge them too harshly. Consider, too, how 
much your sex has to answer for, in — ah ! there is Senor 
d’Alvarez — has he come to seek you ? ” 

I looked through the sheltering boughs : there stood 
Sigismond at the turn of a walk, between us and the foun- 
tain, evidently anxious and impatient. “ He is waiting for 
you — leave me now, monsieur,” said Coralie. 

“First, allow me to find your companion, belle Mar- 
guerite,” I replied. 


88 


MY ROSES. 


“ No, no ; I can find her easily. I do not wish to return 
to her just yet. She brings back the realities of my life 
with her. I shall find her soon enough.” 

“ When can I see you again, dearest Coralie ? ” 

“On Monday evening, when the old Cathedral bell 
rings for vespers, I will be in the * Place d’Armes,’ ” she 
answered, after a moment’s thought. 

“ I will meet you there. Till then, good-by, au soin de 
Dieu” I whispered, pressed her hand, and left the lovely 
lady sitting in the shadow. 

“ Great heavens ! what anxiety you give me ! ” exclaimed 
Sigismond, in a low tone, as I joined him. “ I ’ve walked 
two miles, round and round this trysting-spot, seeking you. 
In the name of wonder, where have you been ? It ’s more 
than half an hour past the time ; and we must wait for the 
twelve-o’clock train.” 

“I’ve been sitting over there — under those trailing 
boughs of — ” 

“ All the time ? Not thirty paces from me ? ” he ques- 
tioned. 

“ All the time ; and she is there still. Let us go. Ah ! 
mon ami, I ’ve such joyful news for you. I ’ll tell you all 
about it as soon as we reach home.” I did so, after our 
safe arrival ; and his fine eyes bore very suspicious evi- 
dences of tears, as he again took me to his heart, and 
said, in broken tones, “ God bless you for a noble woman ! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE PLACE d’aEMES. 


The light in her blue eyes serene 

Was lit of Heaven — those yearning eyes, 

A wistful look would to them rise: 

Some spirit strayed from Paradise, 

Who might not earthly language speak. 
Within her melancholy eyes 
Might wear such look as I have seen 
Pleading in thine. 


Mary E. Bryam. 


My soul is drunk with gazing on this face ; 

I reel and faint with it ! In what other world 
Have I traced all its lineaments before ? 

I know them ! 


I’ll hide this fatal picture 


From sight once more, for till she made me look on 't 
I did not know my weakness. 


N. P. Willis. 


ROMISE me, m^amour. You must give me that assu- 



JL ranee. I cannot leave you unless you do. I shall be 
anxious, restless, unhappy, dissatisfied — in brief, everything 
that is uncomfortable, all the time I am gone, unless you 
give me your word that you will not attempt to see your 
protegee during my absence. Promise, ” said 

Monsieur Sauvollee. He spoke hurriedly, earnestly ; clasp- 
ing both my hands tightly within his own. 

“ After this evening, Sigismond.’^ 

'“True, that is what I mean. You can see her here this 
evening, of course ; but do not remain late ; be at home by 
8 * 89 


90 


MY ROSES. 


eight, at furthest. I wish, as your affairs now stand, that 
I was not obliged to leave just at present; but I am com- 
pelled to do it. It is your father’s business, and I cannot 
postpone it, as I should be tempted to do were it only my own. 
I am two days behind time already, and those old planters 
will lose confidence in me if I delay in their afiairs ; they 
look for me to be prompt to the hour.” 

“I do wish you were not compelled to go,” I said. 
“Something whispers that I shall need you. I do not 
think my father at all well to-day, and fear I shall be 
obliged to send for Dr. Dupont, notwithstanding his strong 
opposition.” 

“ No ; I do not think that is necessary,” he replied ; “ I 
was with your father all the evening, on Saturday, after 
our return from Carrollton, receiving instructions, making 
out estimates, and so forth, and thought he appeared quite 
as usual. But it is your new 'protegee and her affairs I am 
alluding to; this renders me unwilling to leave at present. 
I wish to see her removed from such associations as now sur- 
round her, and that speedily. Something must be done for 
her ; what, I cannot yet determine. I have thought it all 
over a hundred times, and yet I cannot see how we are to 
take her out of those associations without her aunt’s con- 
sent, and the woman will never give her up willingly ; of 
that I am convinced. Madame regards her beautiful rela- 
tive as too rich a prize to be thrown away after that fash- 
ion. At all events, curb your impatience, and rest perfectly 
quiet until my return. I promise faithfully then to accom- 
plish your design in some way or other, at present known 
only to le bon Dieu. I should go wild to think of your 
exposing yourself in this guise — having conferences with 
Lesueur, and I not beside you. You could not play that 
rdle without me, yrCa'mour : strong and spirited, and (pardon 
me) slightly self-willed as you are, you have not the 


MY ROSES. 


91 


strength and spirit and will for that. Now, promise me, 
fleur-de-lis.^^ 

“ I do promise,” I responded ; “ provided no unforeseen 
exigency occurs. But, if immediate action should be 
necessary, I shall be strong enough to act ; and I shall 
compel myself to it.” 

“ There is not the slightest necessity whatever for any 
action in the matter, and will not be, for a few days, at 
least. Let affairs remain precisely as they are until my 
return. Let me see — Assumption, Iberville, East Baton 
Rouge — I shall be gone but eight or ten days, at the very 
furthest. Surely you can wait that long without impa- 
tience, mignonne. Just think of it — on this day of last 
week you did not know there was such a person living as 
Coral ie Lesueur. Can you not forget, for a few days, this 
fascinating stranger — and remember only him who has 
loved you — always ? ” 

“ How like a man that was ! No fear of your forgetting 
yourself ; ” and I laughed up in his serious face. “ But, I 
grant all you may choose to ask, if you, in your turn, will 
promise that all the while you are absent you will be 
thinking out and planning some way to break off Coralie’s 
present connections.” 

*‘De tons temps f nay, that ’s ‘too much of a good thing,’” 
he answered, smiling in his peculiar manner, which was 
both calm and gay. “ I ’ll do my best, however. I ’ll de- 
vote to such cogitations all the spare moments I can rescue 
from long calculations, prosy accounts, promises to pay, 
etc., besides the gratuitous thought I am compelled to give 
to the person and welfare of my young friend. Monsieur 
d’Herbelot.’.’ 

“ My best friend, think of it as a matter that very 
nearly concerns my welfare and happiness — a matter 
which I have taken very seriously to heart, which I feel 


92 


MY ROSES. 


must be — ” I paused; interrupted by the first sudden 
peal of the vesper-bell from the old Cathedral tower ; and 
almost at the same instant the bell of the steamer upon 
Avhich Sigismond was to embark sounded sonorous and 
clear over the Levee. 

“There! that’s the packet’s last bell, and Pierre will be 
wondering what has become of me,” Sigismond exclaimed. 
“ I must hurry, or be left. That ’s the vesper-bell, too — 
and see ! yonder come your expected “ belles ” also, through 
the gates. Good-by, good-by, my love ; think that I am 
folding you to my heart of hearts. If you should think 
it best, send for Eugene to-morrow. Above all, until I 
return — soyez tranquille. Mais, quoi que ce soil qui arrive^ 
faites le moi savoir. Once more, good-by, and God bless 
you, my angel — my wife,^^ and he wrung my hand pain- 
fully, and was gone. “ Dieu vous henisse,^* I murmured, 
as he passed from view. 

Doubtless it would have seemed rather odd, had he been 
overheard by the people passing about us, to address an 
elegant young gentleman as “love,” and “angel,” and 
more especially as “ wife; ” but I had no reason to suppose 
he was overheard. We were standing together in a rather 
retired spot, in that corner of the Place d’Armes, (now 
Jackson Square,) in full view of the gates, and on the side 
next to the Pontalba Buildings. Some shrubbery partially 
concealed us ; no one could see us from the street outside, 
although so near ; but, within the Square, persons were 
continually passing, and ever and anon groups of people 
sauntered by our only half-hidden stand-point. An irresis- 
tible feeling of utter loneliness and sadness came over me, 
as Sigismond disappeared from my view down the broad 
walk. Our “ long talk ” and real parting was over before 
we left home; and the brief conversation just related took 
place after we arrived at our rendezvous, and while he was 


MY ROSES. 


93 


waiting for the steamer’s last bell. As he bade me adieu 
I caught a glimpse of the two “ expected belles ” — they 
were just entering the Square. I could not go out to meet 
them, just then. I paused in my partial concealment to 
throw off the woman — the saddened, tender woman who 
had just parted with the one she loved best on earth. I 
must put down myself ; I must have time to assume the 
air, the manner, the necessary nonchalance of the easy, 
elegant cavalier which it was my part to play. I stood 
there alone, for some fifteen or twenty minutes perhaps, 
crushing down the woman in my heart, trampling down 
myself, and calling up the character which was to corre- 
spond wdth my exterior. Alas ! I had some difficulty in 
doing this. I felt alone, unfriended, unprotected ; I missed 
Sigismond’s kind glance, his encouraging smile, his strong 
and ever -ready, sustaining arm. All the woman in my 
nature surged to the surface, overwhelming the force and 
strength of will which Sigismond, frequently in his laugh- 
ing way, called “ masculine.” And then, in the very midst 
of my weakness, came the thought that near me was a 
sister-woman, alone, unfriended, unprotected, and in real 
danger, while mine was but imaginary. I heard this 
woman calling upon me for aid, for sympathy, for hope, 
for more than life, and ah! it was wonderful how this 
thought fired my brain, tensioned up my courage, and 
roused all my drooping energies ! “ It must be ; I will go 

fforth in a strength that is not my own,” I exclaimed, half 
aloud; “I will now go to seek her — perhaps, save her. 
Oh! help my weakness. Thou who art all-powerful! 
Father, guide and guard me as Thy child ! Teach me to 
remember that ‘the race is not always to the swift, nor the 
battle to the strong ! ’ ” 

Without waiting one moment, lest I should lose the 
enthusiasm with which this impulsive prayer inspired me, 


94 


MY ROSES. 


I hastily left my retreat, and stepped out fearlessly (or 
apparently so, at least) into the open space. Groups of 
gay pleasure-seekers, out for their evening stroll, were 
passing and repassing ; laughing ladies, with their attend- 
ant cavaliers; companies of young men of the town; 
parents, with their frolicsome children ; and tawny or 
ebony nurses, with their arms full of baby innocence and 
loveliness. I had gained nearly the centre of the Square, 
when I remarked the two “roses” advancing toward me 
from an opposite direction. They no sooner caught sight of 
me than Coralie turned suddenly and walked back in the 
direction from which they came, while her companion still 
advanced toward me. 

“ Bon soir, Monsieur d’Herbelot,” she nodded carelessly 
as we met. “We are looking for a lady fair, are we not? 
She can be found in a rather isolated spot in yonder 
farthest corner of the grounds, where there is a little seat 
behind a clump of low trees — this way — comprenez vousf’* 
and she threw up her dainty hand over her shoulder, indi- 
cating the direction Mademoiselle Lesueur had taken. I 
assented. “ Ah ! bien, follow her then,” she said, turning 
away. 

“ Thank you, mademoiselle,” I whispered, and passed 
her. 

“ Thank me for nothing,” she replied, with a slight 
sneer. 

“ Stay — stop, sir ! ” she added, in a low, distinct tone! 
Then, with an expression half contemptuous, half amused, 
she drew nearer to me, and said, “ Now, how like a sense- 
less man that was ! Dashing headforemost after his pas- 
sion, if his neck breaks in the race ! Is there no way, sir, 
to follow a lady, except to dog her footsteps, like blood- 
hounds upon a fresh trail? You silly boy, look where you 
step, when you tread among adders.” 


MY ROSES. 


95 


Her sneer was cutting, but perhaps it was kindly, too ; 
so, though I felt the hot blood rush up into my forehead, I 
profited by it : turning away, I sought the place of meeting 
by a more circuitous route. I felt indignant that a woman 
such as she should address me thus ; but, as I hastened 
slowly’’ on my way to Coralie, the thought’ flashed upon 
me. What right have I to be angry? I belong to the 
human race, which she despises ; I belong (seemingly) to 
that sex which it is her pride to play upon and deceive ; 
and then, when I have voluntarily descended to her sphere, 
is it to be wondered at if she regards me only as her equal f 
perchance her inferior f No, no — I have come down into 
the ranks of infamy, and I must both brook and bear what 
I find there. 

“ Henri ! you have come at last ! ” uttered Coralie, in a 
low, half frighted tone, as I put back the heavy foliage, 
and sprang to her side. It was an embowered, secluded 
spot, seeming some little Isle of Peace, for past it the 
human tide surged and murmured like a restless, rocking 
sea. I had bounded to her side, stole my arms around her, 
and whispered, “ I love you, Coralie,” (half forgetting that 
I was a maUj made me seem over-bold, no doubt, to her,) 
before I became aware that she was trembling violently, 
like a dove in the serpent’s coil ; that her fair sweet face 
was pale, very pale, and her lips tremulous — almost color- 
less. There was a look of expectation, an eager, asking 
gaze in her large eyes, and I in a moment divined that she 
was excited, and had something to communicate. 

What is it, dearest Coralie ? ” I whispered. “ You are 
agitated — why is this ? Why do you tremble so ? Tell 
me — tell me!” 

She did not reply, but hastily unwrapping her delicate 
handkerchief, she handed me its contents: a piece of folded 
paper, and a small gold-encased miniature. I took up the 


96 


MY ROSES. 


little picture — it was an exquisite painting — and beheld, 
with intense astonishment, a very striking likeness of my- 
self — not as Henriette de Hauterive, but as Monsieur 
Henri d’Herbelot ! 

“ Where in the round world did you get this, my dear?” 
I cried. “ Sure I am that I never sat for such a picture ; 
and yet it is very like one which I gave only a short 
time ago to Sigis — I mean, it is like one I gave to — 
Senor d’ Alvarez, on the first day of this month: it was 
taken on my jour de naissance, the first of June.” 

“ The first of June!” ejaculated Coralie; “why, that is 
my birthday! And, just look at this!” She turned the 
back of the picture, and I saw, encircled by a wreath of 
forget-me-nots, this inscription, “Henri;” and directly 
below this, “ June 1st, 1834.” My brain reeled ; I felt as 
if stricken — stunned by some trenchant blow from an in- 
visible and supernatural source. My breath came thick, 
my eyes were dazed and swimming, and I shook in every 
nerve and fibre of my frame. I pressed my hand to my 
forehead, held my eyes closed for a few moments, trying to 
collect my scattered senses : then I took up the miniature 
again, and examined it closely. Coralie looked over my 
arm, and considered the inscription with me. “ ^June 1st, 
1834,’ ” she read ; “that was the day of my birth ; I was just 
eighteen this first of June. Eighteen thirty-four — that is 
precisely eighteen years ago.” 

“Great Heaven ! this picture can’t be mine, then ! ” I ut- 
tered ; for the first time becoming aware of the import of 
the date. “ Why, no ! how should it ? I was only two years 
of age when this was taken. Of course it is not mine — 
but whose is it, Coralie ? ” 

“ I do not know, monsieur,” she answered. “ So then, 
you are only two years my senior,” she added ; “ I should 


MY ROSES. 


97 


have thought you more than that ; but gentlemen look 
more mature, earlier than we — it’s the beard, I suppose.” 

I was steadily regarding the little portrait, as I turned it 
over and over in my hand. The face itself — and there was 
little more than just the head — was most exquisitely painted, 
and as fresh, apparently, as if completed yesterday ; and it 
was as much like that “ intense,” tropical, boyish face of 
the one I had taken for Sigismond, as a painting could 
be like a daguerreotype ; except, perhaps, that this was a 
somewhat bolder face, with a dash of reckless daring in its 
expression. It was an exceedingly handsome face, never- 
theless, (though I assert that it was like M. d’Herbelot,) and 
one that, having looked on once, you could not choose but 
look again. The casing which held it was of a peculiar 
red gold, with a raised wreath of forget-me-nots on the 
back, surrounding the inscription ; the small flowers in blue 
enamel. But what was more peculiar still, was the fact 
that it had the appearance of having been one half of a 
double locket, and also of having been wrenched ofi* at the 
hinge from the other half : there was no handle or loop 
attached to it, but the catch which had fastened into the 
spring on the other side was entire. So strangely bewil- 
dered were my faculties, that it was some minutes before I 
found thought to lay down the picture and pick up the 
bit of folded paper which accompanied it, and which I had 
allowed to drop to the ground. I regained it as it lay at 
my feet, unfolded it, then read, and gazed upon it spell- 
bound — far more deeply mystified than before. It was the 
half only of a note; the paper a thick, glossy article, with 
an embossed border, and not very fresh in appearance. 
The yellow vellum sheet had been torn nearly straight 
down the middle, a part of both leaves remaining ; it was 
the right-hand side of the note, or letter ; and read thus : 

9 


98 


MY ROSES. 


“ edf my loved Coraliej 
with full power to claim 
/ I give you a thousandf 
believe the deep devotion 
my whole soul id centred 
my own one — soon, very soon, 
me this evening, 
ly evermore 

Your Henri.” 


There were our names, ^ Henri ” and Coralie ! ” — united 
names, telling that the persons who bore them were united 
in a wild and passionate love. 

“ In the name of Heaven, whose are these things, and 
where did you get them ? ” I exclaimed, when at length I 
found voice to speak. 

Coralie was reading over the little paper again, and I 
noted the warm color creeping up into her hitherto pale, 
cold cheek, as she did so. She raised her eyes, and her 
blushes deepened to a rich damask rose, when she found my 
gaze centred upon her face. “ They are mine,” she said, in a 
low tone ; “ and I gained possession of them this very morn- 
ing, from — well, from Madame Lesueur.” 

“ Did you never have them in your possession before this 
morning ? ” I asked. 

“ Never,” she replied. “ And Madame, I presume, would 
have hesitated long before she would have given them to 
me at all. I took them — upon my own responsibility.” 

“Tell me all about it — vite!” And then a thought 
flashed over me : might not all this be some secret snare — 
some cunningly laid trap, which was to draw me into some- 
thing dangerous — I knew not what ? I remembered how 
Madame Lesueur had seemed to pierce me through and 
through with those steely eyes ; then Marguerite had let 
fall some warning words about “ stepping among adders ; ” 


MY EOSES. 


99 


and now, Coralie’s confusion and changing color — why was 
it ? was it consciousness of duplicity toward me ? a failing 
of her heart, unused to such deception ? a fear of detection ? 

“ Stop ! ” I cried, goaded by these stinging thoughts — 
and bursting at once into medias res with my usual impet- 
uosity. “ Why were you blushing just how, Coralie, while 
you were reading — and when I spoke to you ? ” 

She crimsoned violently at this abrupt and unexpected 
question — her beautiful head drooped lower and lower 
upon . her bosom. My heart sank within me : I would not 
for the world have proved her capable of duplicity. Yet 
I could but pity her overwhelming confusion. 

“ Coralie, ma ch^re,” I said, kindly, taking up her small 
hand, which still held the paper, “ will you tell me why 
you blushed while reading this? Was it from a conscious- 
ness that you are attempting to deceive me ? that you — 
Deceive youf^’ she interrupted, suddenly raising her eyes 
and fixing them upon me in startled astonishment, “deceive 
youf Monsieur d’Herbelot, I cannot understand you. If I 
blushed, it was from a consciousness that I — that I — Be 
assured, I never could deceive you. Because that I — ” 
She stopped short, again covered with painful confusion, as 
she added impulsively, “ I cannot say it ! 

“ Keep your secrets then, Coralie, I said, icily ; “ Jdo 
not seek to wrest them from you.” 

^‘You do! ” she exclaimed, impetuously. “You do seek 
to wring them from me, and you are unkind to do so ! 
This is ‘ man’s love — half selfishness, half suspicion,’ 
Marguerite says. You are angry now — angry, because I 
did not say that if I blushed ’t was from a consciousness 
that thus you might have felt — might have written — But 
no ; ” and here she raised her head haughtily ; her eyes 
flashed proudly upon me from their blue depths, and tears 
were glittering there, too. She added excitedly, “No — 
now I will not say it ! Even your anger, sir, shall not 


100 


MY ROSES. 


force me to it. A woman — even such as I — has a right 
to guard her own heart’s secret ! ” 

The blinding, dazzling truth flashed upon my woman^s 
intuitions in that supreme moment ! Comme V eclair I saw 
that I had won ; Coralie was mine ! 

I threw my ariilftaround the superb young creature ; I 
held her closely to my throbbing heart, and murmured, 
“ Was it that you thought ’t was thus I ‘might have felt 
— have written ’ to you^ m^amie f Ah ! believe me, yowr 
thought was only the shadow — mine is the reality! I do 
thus feel for you — I cauld thus write; for, verily, my 
‘ whole soul seems centred ’ in you. With your eyes 
looking full into mine, how could I have uttered the 
word ‘deceive?’ How could I have dreamed it?” 

“ How, indeed — of me f ” she said, softly. “ But, you 
are a man, and it was like men — as I know them,” she 
added, with a sigh. 

“ Helas ! ” and I echoed her sigh over the knowledge of 
men as she knew them, as all women do perhaps, who 
really know them at all. “Forgive me — forgive me, 
dearest Coralie ! I cannot explain to you, now, the feel- 
ings which drove me to reproach you. A thousand times 
I ask — forgive me ! And that I may be sure you do so, 
let me hear you say just once, ‘ I love you ’ — only this 
once,” I pleaded. But she did not say it audibly. Only 
lier clear, smiling, and soul-full eyes said it, as she turned 
them full on mine, and laid her small, white hand within 
my own, frankly, and with a child’s free glance of inno- 
cence and truth. 

“ For her eyes alone smiled constantly ; her lips had serious sweet- 
ness. 

And her front was calm — the dimple scarcely rippled on her 
cheek ; 

But her deep blue eyes smiled constantly, as if they had by fitness 

Won the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak.” 


MY ROSES. 


101 


A sense as of some new power swept over me — strange, 
strong, and subtle — glorious in its gladness, triumphant 
in its jubilant strength. My arms encircled her ; her beauti- 
ful head drooped low upon my shoulder ; her warm bleatli 
floated over my cheek ; and, I will not deny it, that moment 
was the happiest of my life. Our lips met, and a wild 
joy thrilled through my whole being. I seemed made 
of fiery, throbbing pulses ; the blood surged through my 
veins like glowing lava ; the fulness and richness of her 
beauty flooded my soul with a powerful and passionate 
delight, while her soft, sunny-hearted, almost childlike 
love, brought tears of joy and gratitude to my eyes. 

The glory of the noon on palaces 
Aglow with gems, was never half so bright 
As that pure feeling was, which sprang to life 
Within my soul, when first that radiant blaze 
Of love and beauty kindled it.” 

I will not say that in this intoxicating moment I did not 
forget Sigismond Sauvollee; that I did not desire, ear- 
nestly, passionately, almost fiercely, desire that I were no 
longer Henriette de Hauterive, but — Henri d’Herbelot! 
I did so desire — with the wildness of a deep delirium. 
If it was wrong — as perchance it was — may Heaven 
pardon me ! But, had this been so, with what an exultant 
sense of power and self-reliance would I have drawn that 
radiant beauty to my heart, and bid defiance to fate ! 
With what absorbing devotion would I have poured forth 
my whole heart’s love for her acceptance ! With what a 
triumphant scorn would I have met the world’s cold eyes, 
and dared to place her, at once, in its highest and most 
exclusive circles ! And then, the deep, strange ecstasy of 
knowing she was mine — mine ever, mine only ; that Death 
himself could not separate us, but that in another and 
9 ^ 


102 


MY ROSES. 


more blissful world she would be mine — mine still, for 
time and for eternity. There has been no moment in my 
life like to that, so full of all we call the ineffable and un- 
attainable, filling me, for the first time, with the idea of 
infinitude. I lived ages in that brief space. Centuries 
of common life pass over us while we “count time by 
heart-throbs.” 

“ Thrice-raptured moment! If all-blest like thee 
Are heaven’s bright centuries, how brief will be 
Its countless ages of eternity! ” 

It passed — a meteor-dream of Paradise, that sank into 
darkness at my feet, and never, never came again ! A 
fiery phantom-star which streamed across my sky, just once 
— then fell, to rise no more forever ! 


“ You do not ask me now about the picture ? ” said 
Coralie, in her sweet, low tones, as she lifted her head from 
my shoulder, where, I am sure, it had rested but for a mo- 
ment. “ Shall I not tell you how it came to be in my pos- 
session ? ” I bowed, merely ; I had awakened from a dream 
of entranced delirium, and words had not yet come back 
to me. 

“ I will be brief, for there is really but little to say,” she 
began, “ concerning these things, which have so strangely 
puzzled and troubled us both. I went into Madame 
Lesueur’s chamber last night, to make some inquiries 
about a dress which she was having trimmed for me. She 
was seated by her writing-table, as I entered, (I had not 
knocked at her door, for I am not required to do that when 
she is alone,) and seemed much engaged, for she did not 
notice my approach at all. The dress had been brought 
home, and was lying across a chair, very near her. I ad- 
vanced to take it up, and in doing so, I must needs glance 


MY ROSES. 


103 


over her shoulder, when I saw that she was gazing stead- 
fastly upon this very picture. I was struck with the face 
in an instant, and thoughtlessly exclaimed aloud : ‘ Ouias ! 
ma tante, where did you get that picture of Monsieur 
d’Herbelot ! ’ She sprang from her chair, and faced me 
for a moment with an angry glare in her eyes ; and then 
she said, very coldly, ‘What brings you here, Coralie?’ 

“ ‘ I came in to see my dress, aunt, and you did not notice 
me,’ I replied. ‘ Won’t you tell me where you got the 
picture ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, child,’ she said ; and then she looked at it again, 
and added, ‘So you think this resembles Monsieur 
d'Herbelot?’ 

“ ‘ I do, indeed ; I am sure it was taken for him,’ I re- 
plied. 

“ ‘ You are very greatly mistaken, then : it was not “ taken 
for him,” ’ she answered. ‘ But I am glad you think there 
is a likeness ; I was very much struck with the resemblance 
the first time he called here. I watched him narrowly, and 
the impression increased upon me.’ 

“ ‘ But, if it is not Monsieur d’Herbelot, who is it, Aunt 
Elise ? ’ I questioned. ‘ Your husband ? one of your lovers 
of long ago? Who is it?’ I was growing importunate. 

“ ‘ I don’t know. No matter who it is, or was, Cor- 
alie,’ she said, hastily. ‘ Give it to me, and try on your 
dress: the woman is waiting down stairs. I am hurried, 
too — have some accounts to cast up, and some letters to 
finish, as I am going across the lake to-morrow, to be gone 
two or three days. Make haste, now.’ And not another 
word could I elicit from her upon the subject. I took up 
the dress and went forward to the large mirror opposite ; 
and in it I saw my aunt take up the picture, and this 
paper, touch a spring on the left side of her writing-table ; 
a narrow leaf fell ; she pushed the articles in quickly, and 


104 


MY ROSES. 


closed it again. I was busying myself with my dress — 
she did not know that I observed her. What more is to 
be said? This morning my aunt did go across the lake. I 
felt an irresistible desire to see that picture ; I did not 
mean to take it away, then — ” Here Coralie paused, and 
quick flushes again dyed her pure brow. I understood 
her — she merely wished to look* again upon a picture 
which was so like myself. “ Tout va Men ! En avant,** I 
said, smiling. I scarcely dare say now how much this im- 
plied confession gratified me. “Yes, to go on,” she re- 
sumed. “ After considerable time and patience had been 
expended, I found the secret spring ; and have brought 
these strange things to you, that you might see them, and 
help me think out what they mean. They belong to me, I 
am confident, from the name Coralie, (aunt’s name is 
Elise,) and I imagine they concern you, also — but how 
they belong to me, or may affect you, I cannot tell. What 
do you think, Henri?” 

Dieu du del! I am not able to think at all, now,” I 
answered. “ But, then, I must think — I must unravel this 
mystery, and I will. Trust me, Coralie. I swear to do it, 
Dieu aidant! Return these articles to their hiding-place 
for the present. That they are in some way connected 
with us both, I do not doubt, and I thank you for bring- 
ing them to me. When will Madame Lesueur return ? ” 

“ On the day after to-morrow.” 

“ Two days, almost three, to wait ; how can I do it ?” I 
exclaimed. “But, I must think — yes, I must have time 
to think. I cannot now see an inch before me. Still, I 
swear to you, my Coralie, thus kneeling before a just 
Heaven, that I will see you through this maze and mys- 
tery ; and if there has been (as I suspect) foul play some 
where, woe be to those on whom rests the guilty chronicle ! 
I swear to see you righted, Coralie — swear it even thus.” 


MY EOSES. 


105 


And kneeling by her side, with my arms encircling her 
graceful waist, I drew her gently down, and sealed my oath 
upon the pure tablet of her brow. 

“Hasten! hasten, mademoiselle — for heaven’s sake 
wake up, and come quickly ! ” exclaimed a low voice near 
us ; and in a moment more Marguerite threw aside the 
foliage, and seizing Coralie by the arm, was hurrying her 
away. 

“Stop! hold ! what mean you, madame?” I cried, en- 
deavoring to detain them. 

“ Adieu, senor ; for all the saints’ sakes, remain where 
you are for at least a quarter of an hour,” said Marguerite, 
hurriedly. “ Come, Coralie, I ’ve been watching the gates, 
and he’s here. Remain, senor, I conjure you — you are 
watched ! ” and she glided away with Coralie, who sighed 
“ Addio,” as her paling cheek told of some new fear or 
horror crowding upon her young spirit — and both were 
gone. 

In ten minutes I ventured cautiously forth, and saw 
them passing the gate opposite the Cathedral in company 
with a gentleman ; but they were at such a distance, and 
the twilight gathering down about us, so that it was in 
vain I strained my eyes forward ; I could not distinguish 
the person, if indeed I knew him at all. And so, with 
a new pain at my heart, through the deepening dusk I 
hastened homeward. 


CHAPTER yill. 


COMPLETELY MYSTIFIED. 

Closer and lower, gathering round me deeper 
The universal cloud ; 

I feel like some wild, horror-stricken sleeper 
Who wakens in a shroud ! 

Like some poor wretch who closed his eyes at morning 
Against the growing day. 

And finds himself, without a prayer or warning, 

* A tenant of the clay ! 

Around me is a darkness omnipresent, 

With boundless horror grim, 

Descending from the zenith, ever crescent 
To the horizon’s rim : 

The golden stars, all charred and blackened by it. 

Are swept out one by one ; 

My world is left, as if at J oshua’s fiat, 

A moonless Ajalon ! 

Joseph Brennan, 

A ll night long I lay turning over and over again in 
my mind the incidents of my interview with Made- 
moiselle Lesueur, at the Place d’Armes. Remembrance 
effectually “ murdered sleep.” After the first shock and its 
consequent bewilderment passed, my head seemed still diz- 
zied and my heart drunken with its strange experiences. 
I strove to analyze my feelings, to “ define my position ” 
calmly and dispassionately ; but the more I struggled after 
light to lead me, the thicker grew the Egyptian gloom 
around. That there was a path of duty somewhere, thread- 
ing away out into these regions of mystery, I was con- 

106 


MY ROSES. 


107 


vinced ; but where? And how was I to find it? and when 
found, how to follow it ? “Let the light enter ! ” I cried in 
my despair, with the dying Goethe ; but no light came, and 
my soul, like his, went out amid the thick shadows of the 
unknown Future ; striving ever to grasp 

“God’s right hand in that darkness, 

And be lifted up, and strengthened ; ” 

and striving, alas ! in vain. How poor, how feeble, how 
human I felt myself to be ! There was nothing in me to 
send forth the God-like fiat, “ Let there be light ! ” about 
my labyrinthine way. Worn and weary, I must wander on 
alone upon a “ hidden path,” in patience, waiting for the 
day to dawn upon my benighted course ; or I must gather 
courage from some dread necessity, and struggle onward 
through the maze — waging hand-to-hand war with “Cir- 
cumstances — the unspiritual god that turns our hopes to 
ashes ” — and all the while 

“ . . . with such rash 

And passionate cuttings at the Gordian knot 
That tangled up my heart-strings,” 

as makes the brain of woman reel with suffering, and 
her soul tremble with a deadly fear. To sit and wait — 
wait for the clouds to lift, and my way open before me of 
itself, was not in consonance with my impetuous and pas- 
sionate nature. I was a sword to be broken or blunted in 
the battle, not to moulder away with rust in the scabbard. 
To set forward then at once, even on a blind path, or to 
carve out from the chaos which encompassed me a way to 
the accomplishment of my design ; was my choice. I was 
not unaware that it might bring me to sorrow and suffer- 
ing — to shame, perhaps, direst of all! Yet I had “put 
my foot upon the ploughshare, and I could not go back. 


108 


MY ROSES. 


It miglit be burning hot ; it might sear and scar the ten- 
der feet ; but I had set my face forward, and the ordeal must 
be passed. Not calmly, nor dispassionately, but just with 
whatever of spirit, strength, and courage I could command, 
(and which, I fear, was not very great,) I surveyed my 
situation and surroundings. As I lay there upon a sleep- 
less couch, staring with wide-open eyes into the darkness, 
I tried to gather up the tangled threads of this crimson 
life-skein which were winding around me; to loosen this, to 
unravel that, and follow up a third until it mingled with 
the woof of my past, or future : all in vain. I saw myself, 
the daughter of a noble house, going down upon a path of 
danger and dread; perchance worse — of sorrow and shame. 
What if the world (as Sigismond had said) were to become 
cognizant of the fact ? How would the sharpened tongues 
of the “ dear five hundred friends ” strike, like poisoned 
javelins, into the proud spirit which erst had “ruled them 
with a rod of iron ! ” I tried myself resolutely and piti- 
lessly ; I wished to prove to myself whether I was gold or 
dross. I questioned myself keenly, and found that when 
I remembered Coralie calling to me from the wilderness 
in which she wandered now alone — undefended, sin-sur- 
rounded, tempted perhaps — I felt that for her I could 
brave the world, could bear its bitterness, could even dare 
more, for the sweet hope of bringing her home, at last, 
into the “ pleasant pastures ” and beside the “ still waters ” 
of purity and peace. 

I went over our interview, little by little, pausing to 
analyze myself, ever and anon. I contrasted my feelings 
when Sigismond bade me farewell — when I was all the 
woman — with the strange delirium which lifted me com- 
pletely out of myself when I discovered that Coralie loved 
me, 08 a man. “ Very unnatural,” some caviller will say, 
“ not lifelike, not womanly.” There we differ. Not like 


MY ROSES. 


109 


every-day life, perhaps, nor “ natural to ordinary women. 
But this was not an every-day experience, nor am I, it is 
to be hoped, (in all modesty be it spoken,) an ordinary 
woman. On the contrary, I am, in many respects, excep- 
tional. Sigismond Sauvollee and myself were admirably 
well adapted to each other. He had the strong, calm 
brain of a man with the gentle heart of a woman. My 
nature was twofold also — the brain of a woman, and a 
certain masculine element in me also, which I can find no 
better name for than to call it a virile heart-force. How 
I came by it — who can tell ? God gave it to me with my 
life, I suppose, and for a purpose. May I be excused if I 
intimate my belief that this twofold nature gives to the 
world its best women and its noblest men ? I loved Sigis- 
mond wholly, and solely, as I would a gift direct from 
God. My single (apparent) inconstancy to him was on 
this evening, when, overshadowed by beauty and surren- 
dering myself to the enchantment of its loveliness, long- 
ing eagerly to gather that beauty to myself and lift it free 
of all its sorrowful surroundings, I had deliriously desired 
to he what I seemed, the boy-lover of Coralie Lesueur. To 
me the wish appears neither unnatural nor unwomanly, 
because I really felt it. The sunsets which we sometimes 
see in nature would, if placed upon canvas, appear un- 
natural. The critics would say so. I do not know, how- 
ever, that this would materially damage the sunsets. I am, 
like them, content to be “unnatural” semi-occasionally, 
if I only can be true to nature! 

I justify myself, and she justifies me now ; but, on this 
night of which I speak, a deep pang, that was half exultant 
joy and half sorrowful remorse, thrilled through me as I 
remembered that I had won her young- heart’s “ first and 
passionate love.” But how had I won it ? God forgive 
10 


110 


MY ROSES. 


$ 

me ! I could not help even then recurring with delight to 
that charmed moment when 

“ She did confess it. Like a cloudy veil 
That in the twilight opes above a star 
Her lashes rose : she looked into mine eye?. 

And said it thus. . . . 

. . . I heard his low-voiced vows 

Soft as the river’s rippling surge that sways 
Around the willow-boughs ; and she replied 
With that same kiss the willow gives the wave.” 

Alone with my own soul and the darkness ; yet the blood 
rushed in a tumultuous torrent to my brow, as I remem- 
bered that brief draught of an intoxicating madness which 
I had drained, when, a few hours before, I had clasped her 
to my bosom, and forgotten, as in some weird, exhilarating 
hasheesh dream — everything in earth or heaven, save that 
she was mine ! And now — how was all this to end ? how 
could I ever acknowledge the deception I had practised ? 
I who had dared to tax her with duplicity — how confess 
that I was a deceiver? how should I dare now to drop the 
mask of the adoring lover, and stand forth simply — the 
“female friend?” Would she not despise me? and could 
I blame her if she did? Would she not sigh to relinquish 
the manly lover and accept the woman friend ; for is not 
love of greater worth than friendship f A man will not 
accept in lieu of the love of the woman he worships, the 
affection of the best brother the world ever saw ; a woman 
forgets filial and fraternal love in that of her husband ; 
why then should she not reject me, who had nothing better 
to offer her than the devotion of a friend ? It was a torture 
to me — this knowledge of the confession I had to make, 
and the thought that; it mmi he made. Sooner or later the 
dreaded denoHment must come — how^ I did not even 
dare to dream. It was a thought that racked my mind 


MY ROSES. 


Ill 


until it felt shattered — “ broken on the wheel ” of strong 
mental pain. I could not look it directly in the face — so 
I cast it from me for the time with sore impatience, as 
another perplexity took possession of my brain. 

That broken picture ! That mutilated letter ! Au nom 
de Dieu, whence came they ? whose were they — and what 
were they ? and why came they thus to me f I went over 
it all again and again. “Henri ” and “Coralie,” these were 
the names; “Henri” to Coralie,” that was the relation; 
and love — strong, impetuous, exclusive love; full of a 
deep earnestness, and “ rich with passion’s burning wine ” 
— that was the link which bound them ! “ June 1st, 1834.” 
The day of my Coralie’s birth ; the day on which I com- 
pleted my second year; the day of my mother’s death. 
And now — eighteen years after — that picture and that 
fragment of a letter come up to us — and why ? Is it an 
accident ? Or is there a reason and a destiny in it ? Is 
there indeed near us 

*‘ . . . a divinity that shapes our ends, 

Rough-hew them as we may ” ? 

In dwelling upon this point, I seemed to have a vague 
presentiment that some dread, and perchance “dead se- 
cret,” was before me. There was a knot to be unravelled, 
which I alone could loose ; a labyrinth to be threaded, 
where I alone could find the clue ; a secret portal to be 
opened, of which I alone could possess the “ Open Sesame.” 
But what that cabalistic word might be — when it was to 
be spoken, or where, I had now no means of determining. 
Time — and time only, could reveal it to me. 

And anon another “ change came o’er the spirit of my 
dream : ” a new perplexity, another mystery. What could 
Marguerite have meant by her hints concerning a path 
“among adders”? what by her hurried exclamation, 


112 


MY ROSES. 


“ You are watched, sir ” / Who could know of my adven- 
ture? Was it possible that any one could have penetrated 
my disguise? Who could it be. that dared to play the spy 
upon my actions? Had Ninette — but no — I could not 
wrong this faithful creature by such a thought. And 
more — who was the man I saw in company with Mar- 
guerite and Coralie as they left the Place d’Armes — of 
whom the former had whispered ‘‘He’s here”? Verily I 
was in a maze of difficulties. I stood in a dark labyrinth, 
surrounded by a guard of Sphynxine riddles, any one of 
which might daunt a woman’s heart to solve. And yet 
they must not only be met, but passed ; they must not only 
be studied, but explained. Who was to do it? Drearily 
enough my heart answered, out of the shadows — Myself 

— no one but myself.” Oh that the bright, fair morning 
of Sigismond’s return were come ! Ten days ! Ten whole, 
almost life-long days, and not one of them* yet gone ! How 
should I bear this suspense ? It was just ten times as much 
as my impetuous spirit could patiently endure. Let me 
think. Until the return of Madame Lesueur, I must 
wait. There was but one little item made plain to me : I 
knew now why she had regarded me so closely : because 
of my resemblance to that broken picture. What was the 
original to herf What to Coralie — what to me? She 
had 5aid she did not know who was the original of that 
picture. That was simply a falsehood. I would wring 
the truth from her — the truth I would have, even if 
blood were the price. Excited beyond bounds, I sprang 
from the bed, and paced the dark chamber rapidly to and 
fro ; repeating, “ Till she comes I must wait ; and then 

— and then — ” 

And thus the morning found me. A faint gray was just 
breaking in the east, and Ninette still slept soundly. I 
had paused in my hurried walk to throw open one of the 


MY EOSES. 


113 


Venetians which opened upon the balcony, when I heard 
a step and a low knock at my chamber door. Thomas 
stood there when I opened it. There was much of sorrow 
in his bronzed face as he said, “If you please, mistus — 
will you come in soon to see master ? ” 

“ Is he ill — worse, I mean ? ” I asked, breathlessly. 

“Yes, Miss; master isn’t well, mistus — not well at all. 

He slept none last night ; and he talked about you, but 
would n’t let me come to tell you he wanted you, until it 
was your time of waking. * Let her sleep,’ he says ; ‘ let 
her sleep as God allows the young and innocent to sleep.’ 

But it’s morning now. Miss, or nigh on to it; and as I ^ 
slipped by your room I heard you a-stirring — so I thought 
I ’d tell you. He did n’t tell me to come. But if I might 
have a say. Miss, would n’t it be best to send for a physi- 
cian ? ” and the good old servant, having delivered himself 
of his “ say,” stood again on his dignity, awaiting mine. 

“ Has your master spoken of any one in particular ? ” I 
inquired. 

“ Lord bless you, no, mistus,” he replied. “ Master 
won’t allow as he is sick : says he ’s only weak like, an’ 
don’t want any doctor at all. But he don’t sleep any of 
consequence. Miss — only after taking his drops, and that ’s 
not good, nateral sleep, neither. He moans in his sleep 
then, and says, over an’ over; ‘Pauline! Pauline!’ — 
a-calling your dead mother. Miss, you know.” 

“I will go to him directly, Thomas,” I said ; “my poor 
father! If there be a necessity, we must persuade him 
into calling in medical assistance.” 

“ Jest so, mistus ; my own judgment precisely,” as- 
sented the servitor. “An’ if I might say a word. Miss, 

I ’d recommen’ Mas’ Sigismond’s friend, young Dr. Du- 
pont. He ’s mighty pleasant, an’ a fine-lookin’, honest 
gentleman ; an’ as to doctorin’ — why, they do say. Miss, 

10 * 


114 


MY ROSES. 


that Dr. Dupont’s been furder, an’ fotch back more, than 
enny of ’em ! ” 

“Very well, Thomas,” I replied, smiling in spite of my- 
self at his odd manner of lauding the medical attainments 
of my friend Eugene, “ we will decide upon that very soon. 
Go back now to my father ; do not mention that you have 
said anything to me ; I will be there in a few moments.” 

Ninette was still asleep, curled up on her low lounge in 
my dressing-room ; and I did not awaken her. Passing in 
softly, I bathed my face — a little of the ice, still remain- 
ing unmelted in the urn, I took to cool my dry lips and 
feverish brow : then, smoothing the thick waves of my hair 
and throwing on a light rohe de chambre, T went back 
through my own room and the long hall, to my father’s 
apartments. A wide gallery ran around three sides of the 
house, and at the east corner my father’s sleeping-chamber 
opened out upon this gallery, by glass doors and Venetians. 
I passed round to that point, expecting to find those doors 
open — as was his custom during the summer. The air 
was fresh and balmy, (for we did not live exactly in the 
great seething, sweltering heart of the city,) and a mocking- 
bird, swaying himself on the pendent spray of a vine which 
had clambered up round column and balustrade from the 
gallery below, sent forth upon the morning breeze a perfect 
shower of trills and cadenzas. Both doors w^ere wide open, 
and when I came opposite them I saw m-y father lying 
upon his bed, which occupied the centre of the room, and 
looking out from it upon the eastern sky. He started 
slightly as I appeared ; then smiled, and held out his hand. 
I went softly in to his bedside. 

“ Why, what a very lark you are, my child ! ” he said, 
kindly. “ I was thinking of sending for you an hour or 
two hence. But, sit down by me. Thomas ! ” — as he said 
this, he glanced toward a small table near him, on which 


MY ROSES. 


115 


stood some vials, and a glass goblet half-filled with a light- 
brown liquid — “Thomas, remove that table, and set a 
chair in its place: do you not see that your mistress is 
standing?” Thomas did as he was ordered; and I noticed 
that he carried away the vials and goblet altogether. 
“ The ‘ drops,’ I suppose,” I said to myself. 

“ You look at me as though you thought I was an older 
man than you had heretofore imagined,” said my father, 
with a faint smile, as I sat regarding him with painful 
interest. “ But you must remember that this cold gray 
light of early morning is unfavorable to us all. Even 
you, I think, do not look so fresh and blooming as usual : 
not enough so for a young lady who has slept sweetly all 
through the summer night. Depend upon it this cool glare 
of early morning is not a human beautifier.” He spoke 
playfully, but I was too sad to return his smile. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” I said, taking up his hand, which 
was thin and tremulous; “I am not thinking that you 
seem an older man, but that you are not so well as I an- 
ticipated. I fear that I have been remiss in not reminding 
you more seriously that you need to see Dr. Dupont.” As 
I said this, I looked at the changed face before me, and 
sighed. I had not thought it possible that any one could 
be so altered, in so short a space of time, unless by a severe 
illness ; and my father still maintained, firmly, that he was 
^^not ill ” — it was only a trifling weakness and unrest, that 
would soon pass away by keeping cool and quiet, and with 
a little horseback exercise in the pleasant evenings. But 
I noticed that for three days past he had not taken that 
exercise ; indeed, I felt that he was now no longer able to 
do so. His strength was not equal to the management of 
his horse, though he would fain have made me believe 
otherwise. His rides were always solitary ; and to go out 
for a drive, with an attendanV^as a thing I had never 


116 


MY ROSES. 


known him to do. His brow was haggard and furrowed*; 
the eyes looked sunken, from the purple circles which sur- 
rounded them ; his complexion was dull and dead ; and 
then his limbs trembled nervously, and there was a weari- 
ness and languor about all his movements which betokened 
illness. It pained me greatly. ■ I felt assured that he was 
much worse, and again entreated him to allow me to call 
in Eugene, if only that I might have his assurance that 
there was nothing serious the matter. 

“ And so you are not willing to take my word for it I 
Surely, when the patient himsalf declares that he is not ill, 
every one ought to be satisfied. I don’t want to see Du- 
pont, or any one else, my child, save yourself. You shall 
nurse me well again in a few days — will you not ? ” said 
my father, taking up my hand as if to detain me, when the 
bell rang for breakfast. 

“ I shall only be too happy to be allowed the privilege 
of nursing you, my dear father,” I replied, quite moved by 
his kindness. But, since M. Sauvollee is absent, and will 
be so for days to come, I would be gratified if you could 
agree to allow Eugene Dupont to assist me. He is our 
friend, and in every way so trustworthy.” 

My father looked at me steadily for a moment. “ Not 
now, not now ; when I need medical advice I will seek it,” 
he said, hastily. As I thought he was annoyed by my im- 
portunities, I desisted from further persuasion, although I 
was confident he needed a physician, and that urgently, 
too. 

“Shall I come and read to you, sir, after I have sent up 
your breakfast? ” I asked, as I turned to go. 

“ No ; come and talk to me,” he replied. “ I love the 
full, soft tones of your voice, Henriette ; and to look at you 
when you are speaking. Ah ! by-the-by — Thomas, give 
your mistress that little^cket of bills, etc., which I put 


MY ROSES. 


117 


Up for her before Monsieur Sauvoll4e left. This is it, child 
— five hundred in notes, and some gold; you said, I think, 
you had still some little purchases to make before setting 
out on your bridal journey next month. Have all those 
affairs in readiness : if you should want more, you have 
only to say so.” 

“ Oh ! I do not need this — I am quite ready,” I said, 
hastily. And this was truth. The first of June was to 
have been my wedding-day, and my trousseau^ both elegant 
and abundant, had been sent in by the modistes fully three 
weeks ago. I wanted nothftg more ; besides, I was not at 
all in a mood to be thinking over happy bridal arrange- 
ments, just then. 

“ Ah ! well, nHmporte,’^ answered my father. “ Do as 
you please with it ; young ladies can always find a use for 
bank notes — if it should only be to light their cigarettes.” 
He said this playfully, and smiling ; then, suddenly, all 
the light went out of his face, his eyes fell upon the thin 
clasped hands, and he added, “ You are all I have left in 
the world. Now go — and come again whenever you can.” 
I obeyed, and, after breakfast, returned, and sat by his side 
until near the dinner hour. 


CHAPTER IX. 


IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL, 


Innocent — 

Let the night sn rlnrt 

The moon is 

So surely is your whiteness to be found 
Through all dark facts. . . . 

The poor lip 



Just motioned for a smile — then let it go ; 
And then, with scarce a stirring of the mouth. 
As if a statue spoke that could not breathe, 
But spoke on calm, between its marble lips — 
* I ’m glad — I’m very glad you clear me so ! ’ 


Mrs. Browning. 


HY have you been making yourself look so- smart, 



yy Ninette ? where are you going this evening ? ” I in- 
quired, as my trim maid, in snowy muslin and broad pink 
ribbons, came into my dressing-room. 

“ To vespers, if you please, mistress.” 

“ Oh ! very well : certainly, Ninon.” 

One long, long week had passed, and it was the holy 
Day of rest. What a week of impatient durance it had 
been to me ! With what feverish anxiety I had counted 
the hours untij Madame Lesueur should return ! — deter- 
mined, when she came, to go directly to her, and demand 
some explanation of that broken picture and letter. Ah ! 
yes, I would wring those secrets from her ; I would force 
her into confession. And then, when Wednesday came — 
when I knew she had returned — how did my boasted 


118 


MY ROSES. 


119 


courage, my stern determination fade and fail me ! I re- 
membered all that I had feared and suffered in going to 
that house, even with Sigismond by my side : how could 
I venture there again — alone f Oh! coward heart of 
mine! I shrank from the attempt, and for the present 
waited, (waiting is a woman’s life-business, is it not ? ) 
counting the days and hours until Sigismond should come. 
Twice during the week I had received a love-missive; twice 
I had written brief letters, urging his speedy return, yet 
not explaining why I so greatly desired it. How could I 
describe the strange incidents of the Place d’Arraes, in a 
letter? My father’s health had served in some degree to 
distract my attention from the subject of Coralie, her ante- 
cedents and surroundings ; and I had spent much of the 
time by his bedside, reading to him, singing for him, or 
conversing with'him. He was, I feared, rapidly declining ; 
yet he would not allow me to say so. On Saturday morn- 
ing I sent privately for Dr. Dupont, and made him ac- 
quainted, to the best of my ability, with the circumstances 
and progress of my father’s malady. 

“He ought to leave the city, mademoiselle,” said the 
doctor, after considering the case. “ Do all in your power 
to cheer and amuse him until M. Sauvoll^e returns, and 
then I think we can manage to induce him to go to Bi- 
loxi, or the Pass. Were his strength sufficient, I should 
insist upon you all leaving this city for the far North — 
neither should I allow you to return until you could send 
forward the white frost as your avant-coureur. You too, 
my dear friend, need a change of air; your cheek is losing 
its freshness ; I fear you are confining yourself too closely 
to your father’s room ; you must be careful of yourself — 
there is much depending on you. Be sure, above all 
things, to keep up your spirits, and get all the sleep you 
can. Just so soon as Sauvollee arrives I must send you 


120 


MY ROSES. 


out of town. It is absolutely necessary — and I wish 
heartily that it could be done to-morrow.’^ 

No — I did not wish that — I could not leave town to- 
morrow. Little did Eugene Dupont dream of all that was 
“ depending on me,” when he urged me to be careful of 
myself. But I felt it. On this the quiet Sabbath I had 
remained at home, in attendance upon my father most of 
the day. In ministering to his comfort, and using all 
efforts to amuse and inspirit him, I had been crushing 
down that anxiety and impatience in regard to Coralie, 
which would otherwise have rendered me wretched. I had, 
in a casual way, and as if it were a sudden idea of my own, 
mentioned the project of leaving town, and my father 
caught at the suggestion with avidity. 

“Certainly, my child; thank you — why did we not 
think of this before ? ” he exclaimed, with more animation 
than I had seen him evince for days. “ Yes, yes, that will 
be the very best for us all. I shall be quite able, by the 
time Sigismond returns, to go to the Pass — indeed, to go 
anywhere with you. Talking all this while of physicians, 
when I have a better one here at home ! But why did you 
not strike upon this idea before, my daughter ? Ah ! well, 
now that it is thought of, we will act upon it. I would 
that Sauvoll4e could arrive to-day.” 

Helas ! and how did my aching heart re-echo that de- 
sire! If he were only come! In the afternoon, having 
read my father to sleep, I threw myself down upon the 
sofa in my dressing-room to “ think it all over ” again. 
Exhausted, I fell asleep. My slumber was brief — only a 
few minutes, it seemed to me — for, when I woke, the self- 
same thoughts were seething in my busy brain. How I 
kept turning them over and over again, and to so little 
purpose ! Now, a new impulse was added to urge me for- 
ward in unravelling, if possible, the mystery which that 


MY ROSES. 


121 


picture had hung round Coralie. In a few days, at far- 
thest, we must prepare to leave the city, to be absent, per- 
haps, three or four months ; in the mean time, what was to 
become of my lovely proUgee f I shuddered as I asked 
myself the question — answer it I did not dare to do, even 
in thought. I put it away from me hurriedly, as I mur- 
mured to myself, “ I will not think of it ; before that time 
she must be beyond the reach of danger ; she must — she 
shall — so help me Heaven ! ” 

It was at that moment Ninette entered, and I noticed 
her holiday attire. “ Shall I not dress your hair, mistress, 
and lay out some fresh muslins for you, before I go ? or are 
you too tired to dress ? ” asked the girl, as she poured out 
water and arranged some flowers on the dressing-table. 

‘‘You may brush my hair, just a little while; I will not 
detain you long. My head aches ; I can’t dress just now,” 
I said, languidly. 

“Do you know, mistress, that I sometimes see your — 
your pretty lady at vespers?” asked Ninon, timidly, as 
she passed the brush softly over my head, which lay upon 
the arm of the sofa. 

“ Who ? What are you talking about, petite f ” 

“About the pretty lady you go to see when — when 
you ’re a gentleman^ mademoiselle,” she answered, naively. 
“3/a foi ! how sweet she is ! The angels that hang up in 
the church are not half as much like they come from le 
bon Dieu as she is.” 

I had started up. “ Is it Coralie ? Does she come to 
vespers, Ninon ? ” 

“Very often, mademoiselle. And I do love to look at 
her, when the music is playing so grand, for her face is 
good as an Ave Mary that is going right up into heaven. 
I ’m sure the good angels carry her prayers up to God first, 
always.” 

11 


122 


MY ROSES. 


\ 

“ That is, if she prays at all, Ninon,” I said, doubtfully, 
wishing to hear what she would say. 

“ Oh, yes, mistress ; she do pray,” answered the girl, 
earnestly. “ I can see it in her soft eyes — and sometimes 
they are full of tears, too.” 

“ Did you go to the church last Monday evening ?” 

“ Oui, mademoiselle ; that was a special occasion.” 

“ Did you see her then ? ” I asked, hastily. 

Yes — but not in the church,” was the reply. “You 
see. Miss, after you left home with Mas’ Sigismond, I went 
to vespers, as you always allow me. I did not see her 
there at all ; but after service was over, Marie Devreux, 
and Jacques, her brother — you know, mademoiselle.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I know — your sweetheart ; get on with your 
story, Ninon.” 

“With mademoiselle’s permission. As I was saying, 
they wanted me to take a turn in the Square; but I said 
’t was getting late, and time all ’spectable colored folks to 
be home at their own firesides, (only we have n’t any in 
this hot weather ;) and just then, while we were discussin’ 
the propriety, we stopped at the gate — and who should 
come out of it right there but the sweet, pretty lady you 
goes to see ; and the other fine young woman that always 
goes with her ; and the gentleman that was gallanting them 
was — you could n’t think who, mistress.” 

“Well, tell me, vitement!^* I cried, breathlessly. 

“ Why, just your old beau ! Him that you despised so. 
Miss — Monsieur BerthSl,” answered she. 

“Jules Berth^l! nom deDieu! then it is he that — ” 
that, is “watching me,” I had almost said; but I checked 
myself just in time. BerthSl, indeed ! and so it was he of 
whom Marguerite had spoken when she said, in that half- 
frightened way, “He’s here” Well, that was something 
gained : I knew my enemy. 


“MY ROSES. 


123 


“Yes, Miss,” continued Ninette, “it was just M. Berth^l. 
I am sure I know him — he used to come here often enough. 
But he looks different now, too. So I did not go into the 
Square, mistress ; I hurried along home, and reached here 
some minutes before you.” 

As my maid chattered on, an impulse came upon me — 
I, too, would go to vespers. My father would not need 
me, and I would be at home again before dark. Oh ! I 
longed to see Coralie’s sweet eyes — to speak, if only a 
word — to tell her she was not forgotten. 

“ Lay out my dress, Ninon ; I am going to the Cathe- 
dral,” I exclaimed, springing from the sofa, and beginning 
to toss up my hair en cavalier. 

“ Which dress, if you please, mistress ? Is it the gren- 
adine robe, or the flounced organdie, or the — ” And how 
far she would have run on with the inventory of my sum- 
mer wardrobe there is no telling, had I not put a period to 
it at once with, “ My citizen^ 8 dress, please.” 

“ Mademoiselle is not going to wear that / ” uttered the 
girl, her wide-open eyes growing wider every moment. 

“ Owi,” was the reply ; and the costume was brought. 
Very quickly I put it on. Opening the top drawer of the 
dressing-table to get my watch, I saw my little pistol lying 
beside it ; and, near by, the roll of bills and gold which 
my father had given me, and which I had put into a com- 
mon leathern case. Scarce knowing why I did so, I slipped 
both the money and pistol into my side-pocket ; and, ac- 
companied by Ninette, went down the back staircase and 
out through the garden — the same mode of exit I had 
taken on the morning I met Sigismond at the “Date 
Tree,” on our way to Carrollton. “ Stay, Ninette,” I said, 
as she paused to unlock the gate at the back of the garden 
— “wait one moment. I do not wish to expose myself, un- 
necessarily, to public gaze ; I do not know whether or not 


124 


MY ROSES. 


I shall be able to bear it alone ; so, do you go on, enter 
the church, and see if Coralie is there. If she is, and 
alone, as you come out take off this flaunting sash ; ” and I 
lifted the ribbon with the slender cane I carried in my 
hand. “ Now hasten, Ninon ; service is half over by this 
time. Don’t omit the signal. I shall be somewhere near, 
and certain to see you.” And the maid quickly disap- 
peared. 

I sauntered on slowly, and coming at last to the Cathe- 
dral, found scarcely any one outside, save the coachmen 
belonging to a long line of vehicles drawn up along the 
edge of the sidewalk. ‘‘ Have a hack, sah ? ” inquired a 
smiling, ebony-faced personage, as I turned away from the 
door and faced the carriages — rather uncertain what to do 
next. “Ah! yes, my good fellow, I will take a seat in 
yours, for a short while ; remain precisely where you are. 
Is the service almost over?” and I laid some silver in the 
man’s hand and sprang into the carriage. 

“ Pooty near over, sah — ’bout half an hour, sah,” an- 
swered the driver, closing the door. 

“Very well. Kemember, I wish to remain just here 
until service is over and the people disperse,” I said. It 
then occurred to me that, if Coralie was not at vespers, I 
was quite safely ensconced, and could be driven home — or 
very nearly so — without any exposure whatever. The 
minutes passed. To wile away the time, which, short as it 
was, seemed an eternity to wait, I pulled up the blinds 
and looked from behind them into the Square beyond. 
Groups of people were there, passing to and fro ; and I had 
not been regarding them five minutes, when, coming up a 
sidewalk toward the gate, I saw Marguerite, and with her 
the stranger whom I had seen once before, on the “ Shell 
Road,” riding with Coralie and Jules Berth el. Of course, 
they could not see me. They came to the gate, paused a 


MY ROSES. 


125 


few moments — looking in the direction of the church — 
then turned, and walked slowly back as they came. Evi- 
dently they were looking for some one — Coralie, most 
probably — and I inferred from this that she was now 
within the Cathedral. But was she alone ? I should see 
very soon. The closing chant died away ; there was a 
hum and a rush within the church, and out poured the 
worshippers in a gorgeous, living stream. From my friend- 
ly ambuscade, I strained my eyes forward: Coralie was 
nowhere to be seen. The crowd ebbed away; vehicles 
rattled off ; the sidewalk was almost deserted, and I was 
beginning to think I had missed Ninon in the mass of 
people — when suddenly she appeared ; and, as I realized 
instantly, without her bright-colored sash. I sprang out ; 
and, as I passed her at the entrance, she whispered, “ Up 
stairs.” On I dashed, very nearly upsetting the old or- 
ganist, who was coming down. I gained the centre of 
the gallery. There were many penitents below, kneeling 
among the pews and pillars, some at the altar’s foot, some 
before the Madonna ; but there was only one figure in the 
gallery, and that knelt humbly in an obscure corner. The 
face was turned away from me ; but every curve of that 
graceful form, in its humility, said, as with an audible 
voice, *^Lord, he merciful to me — a sinner!’^ She seemed 
engaged in earnest prayer, and, from the corner where 
she knelt, her eyes were cast down toward a sculptured 
figure of the Madonna, which graced the altar-piece. 
After a few minutes, she rose, gathered up the rich lace 
mantle which fell like a cloud over her robes of snow, 
and “ turned, in act to go.” Her face was now full to- 
ward me. It was exceedingly pale — white, almost, as 
the robes she wore. A moment, and she perceived me, as 
I stood awaiting her. A faint fiush and a lovely half- 
smile lighted up the statue-like features as she came for- 
U* 


126 


MY ROSES. 


ward, modestly, and gave me her hand. I pressed a kiss 
upon it; and gently drawing her to a seat just in front of 
the organ, took my place by her side. For a few moments 
we looked down upon the magnificent altar-piece, with 
its sculptured marbles, its wrought drapery, its massive 
vases of rarest flowers, and upon the kneeling votaries be- 
low — ourselves screened from observation by the carved 
railing in front of us. The tall waxen tapers were all ex- 
tinguished, and profound silence reigned through the vast 
edifice — except, now and then, as the soft footfall of some 
priestly father fell upon the echoing aisle, or, as pausing 
ever and anon among the penitents, he would raise his 
eyes to. the Madonna and murmur, in deep and solemn 
tones, “ Sanctissima I ora pro nobis I ” 

“ It never occurred to me that you were a Catholic, ma 
chere,’’ I said at length, in a low half-whisper. 

“ Nor am I,” she returned, in the same undertone ; “ I 
am nothing — but a waif. I was educated at the Sacred 
Heart, you remember, but I do not dare call myself a 
Christian of any creed.” 

“ But you come here often ? you like to come ? ” 

“Yes, I come here to pray, or rather to implore the 
blessed Madonna to pray for me. I used to do so at the 
convent when I felt lost and lonely, as I frequently did. 
I do not think I know how to pray yet, for myself — 
mothers teach their children these things ; but I have had 
no mother — simply a waif, you know.” 

I thought I could divine the beautiful child-like feeling 
in her heart; so I said, “And you can regard the Virgin 
as a mother — teaching you to pray, and praying with and 
for you — is it not so, dear Coralie ? ” 

Enthusiasm glowed upon the bright face as she answered, 
low and eagerly, “Yes! that is it. The Madonna is a 
woman — a mother; I love her — she becomes between me 


MY ROSES. 


127 


and the great God and Father of all ; whom, were it not 
for her, I should fear.” 

“But, m’amie,” I said, touched to the heart by the 
sincere pathos of her words, “can you not recognize in 
Jesus, the son of Mary, our great Intercessor? and can 
you not see in God, the Father — our Father, full of mer- 
cy and love, and whose ‘ loving-kindnesses are over all his 
works’?” 

“ I cannot see it so yet,” she replied. “ I have not been 
taught as you have, and I am afraid. I cling to the 
blessed Spirit-Mother which yonder pure marble represents ; 
and if I could only be in truth her spiritual child, she 
would with a mother’s love gather up the broken sentences 
and troubled thoughts which I mean for prayers, and pre- 
sent them acceptably to the Saviour and the Father.” 

I felt that it would be a cruel wrong for me to combat 
this feeling of the lonely child-heart before me. It was 
reaching out, eagerly and earnestly, after the maternal ele- 
ment — a feeling so strong in the motherless ; so natural to 
us all, when we are weary and worn — that lonely, lonely 
cry — 

“Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 

Mother ! oh, mother ! my heart calls for you — 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep — 

Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep.” 

“Coralie,” I whispered, abruptly changing the topic, 
“ I have so longed to see you ! Have you discovered any- 
thing further regarding the — that picture ? ” 

She shook her head ; then said, “ Twice I have endeav- 
ored to draw my aunt into conversation concerning it; 
but she will not permit me to question her. I have be- 
wildered myself over it until I fear my brain is turned.” 

“ And mine also,” I replied. “ So it was Monsieur Berthel 
who carried you off from the Square last Monday evening. 


128 


MY ROSES. 


His appearance seemed to frighten you, and also to flutter 
the self- poised Marguerite a little. Why was this, ma 
chhre f ” 

“You saw him, then! how rash in you to expose your- 
self so I ” she exclaimed. “ Yes, it was Monsieur Berth§l.’’ 

“ And why is he ‘ watching ’ me f ” 

“Because you have come to visit me — and — ” she 
blushed, and hesitated. “ Because he — ” 

“In short — because I love you, and he dares do the 
same — cowardly villain that he is!” I uttered. She 
bowed her head, and a deep blush dyed the pure brow and 
cheek, even casting its flush down upon the throat of snow. 

“ I rather fear Monsieur Berth^l,” she said, after a short 
pause. “ And I dislike, even more than I fear him. In- 
tuitively, I feel that he is a bad man; and yet he pos- 
sesses a great influence over my aunt. I cannot divine the 
reason of this — she is a strong, sometimes stern woman, 
yet she appears to fear Monsieur BerthSl.” 

“Is it so?” I muttered, half to myself; “then I must 
find out why. Does Berth^l — ” But I checked the cruel 
question — it would be an insolence ; I could not say the 
insulting words, “DoesBerthel seek you as his wife I 
would not wound her by any questions as to his designs : 
let her believe I thought them honorable. This was not 
my opinion, of course ; but I only said, “ Loved by such a 
reckless, dissolute, and wholly unprincipled man as I know 
Jules Berth^l to be — I tremble for you, Coralie. I must 
get you away, somehow.” 

“Alas! you know not how I tremble for myself!” she 
uttered, passionately. “I am environed by dangers — a 
thousand difficulties beset me — at times I am half-be- 
wildered by surrounding terrors — yet I see no loop-hole 
of escape.” 

“ Will you not come with me, Coralie? ” I whispered. “ I 


MY ROSES. 


129 


have neither mother nor sister. Come with me, and I will 
protect you — love you — save you and as my arms en- 
circled her I looked into her eyes, awaiting her reply. For 
one moment she seemed the bright embodiment of love and 
joy; glad tears sprang into her soft luminous eyes, blushes 
bloomed in her lately pallid cheeks; yet it was but a 
moment. Suddenly she withdrew from my embrace, the 
full lips quivered like a child’s when it is grieved, and 
the sweet voice was burdened with suffering, as she said, 
“ And oh ! Henri — who is to save me from you — from 
myself f It cannot be — no, no — it cannot be.” 

I sat as one stunned by an unexpected blow. Devant 
Dieu 1 I had never thought of that. What to say I knew 
not. The right words for me to say at this crisis would 
have been few and simple; “Be mine — my wife, dear 
Coralie?” In sooth, they were the only words that could 
be said at all to the point — but how, in Heaven’s name, 
was I to say them ? She did not appear to note my stupe- 
faction, but, after a brief pause, went on : “I am right, 
Henri — it cannot be. I live amid dangers, perplexities, 
temptations — yet I cannot leave them to go to you. As 
yet I have never asked aught concerning your family ; but 
you say you have neither mother nor sister ; therefore you 
have no one in whose care you can place me. Though, 
supposing you had relatives, it would most probably be 
nothing in my favor, for they would scarcely be willing to 
receive such a waif as I. Then, supposing even that you 
had a mother — and that good mother was willing to re- 
ceive me into her houshold ; here my aunt’s authority in- 
tervenes, and I could not leave her without her consent. 
No, Henri — I long to break away from my present life — 
to cast it from me into a Lethe of utter forgetfulness, if 
that were possible ; but I cannot do so, unless I do it hon- 
orably. Where is the use of my beginning a ‘ new life ’ at 


130 


MY ROSES. 


all, unless I commence it in the right. At the convent I 
became quite a proficient in two branches — music and or- 
namental needle-work. Of late I have implored my aunt 
to allow me to endeavor to procure some situation as a 
teacher of these branches — far away from here, where no 
one will ever know anything of what I am now. She will 
not listen to my entreaties. I have ventured to mention 
it to Marguerite, thinking that possibly she might aid me, 
for I am almost sure she loves me. She ridiculed the very 
idea. ‘ Who do you suppose would give you a place as a 
teacher ? ’ she sneered. ‘ A fine teacher, truly — finished off 
at the “Maison des Bijoux;” in good sooth, a very superior 
instructress for our immaculate young ladies ! Why, you 
crazy little simpleton, the very street beggars would mock 
at you ! The good, “ respectable ” world has set its feet 
upon our necks, Coralie Lesueur — best not struggle to 
throw them oflT, or it will gently strangle us — smiling all 
the while in its sedate, respectable, and eternally sanctified 
way — you know.^ And Marguerite is right — I cannot 
deny it. Her words are bitter, but they are the truth. I 
am fettered, pinioned, dungeoned. I feel every hour the 
galling, and hear the clanking of my chains. Oh ! sweet 
Spirit-Mother of Christ ! is there on earth no ho'pe for such 
as If ” 

She broke down at last. It was enough to melt a heart 
of stone — those pitiful words, those heart-wrung tones, so 
full of more than sadness — full of a grief which, being' 
without hope, seemed scarcely less than despair. It seemed 
an Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani” of the struggling soul, 
uttered while all Hope and Love hung in crucifixion, 
and surrounded by a horror of great darkness ” ! Her 
hands were clasped convulsively, tears rained over the 
white and suffering face : tears rained also over mine. 
Then would have, been the moment, had I been the strong- 


MY ROSES. 


131 


souledyinanly lover which she deemed me, to have drawn 
her to my bosom, and sworn to set her at once high above 
“the world’s dread sneer,” as mine — my own — my wife! 

Great God ! how it wrung my soul to know that this was 
beyond my power ! It was then the deception I had prac- 
tised stung me to the heart ! I do not know if she expected 
such a course of action from me ; — it was at least natural 
that she should. Any real lover, any true man would have 
done it — thinking it the very least that he could do, after 
all that had passed. But, I could not do that ; and I did 
something that no man in the same circumstances would 
ever have thought of doing - — something which naturally 
was the first thing that would occur to a woman. I did 
not ask her again to allow me to guide and protect her ; I 
felt that we both needed a guidance and protection which 
no power on earth could bestow; so, throwing my arm 
around her waist and sinking to my knee, I murmured, 
“ Darling ! let us ask God for hope ! ” 

In our great sorrow, kneeling side by side, our souls 
prayed in unison — silently — hers for her own griefs, mine 
for light, for strength, for courage, and for guidance. 
And I am fully persuaded that the All-Father heard us — 
his lonely orphans — and “gave his angels charge coilcern- 
ing us.” 

When we rose, the twilight had descended; the last 
weary devotee was leaving the shrine of his patron saint ; 
dark shadows had gathered in every niche, and slept 
around the base of every column. One tender, lingering 
kiss I pressed upon the pale lips of Coralie, as I held her 
to my heart for a few brief moments; then I took her 
hand and led her from the church. 

It was nearly dark when we descended to the street ; 
there was a lull throughout the thoroughfares : Marguerite 
was nowhere to be seen. I started as the fact coolly stared 


132 


MY ROSES. 


me in the face that I must accompany Coralie home. 
When I sprang from my sofa, determined just to see her — 
perhaps exchange a few words with her at vespers — I did 
not think of this. It was too late to think of it now — 
there was nothing left for me but just to do it. Circum- 
stanced as I was, there was no other course for me to pur- 
sue, save to escort my fair charge to her home — that home 
the “ Maison des Bijoux.” I was going to that house 
again, and without, alas ! without my good genius. Would 
any good angel accompany me instead ? I trusted so — sHl 
plait d Dieu. Strange to say, in my present excited frame 
of mind, I felt no hesitancy or apprehension. I felt strong, 
brave, and full of faith : the emergency was upon me, and 
I could meet it unflinchingly. I drew Coralie’s arm with- 
in my own, and we turned off* in the direction of the — to 
her — dreaded and detested “Maison des Bijoux.” 


CHAPTER X. 


LA BELLE MARGUERITE. 


Two spirits . . . one chaste and pale, 

. . whose garments know no stain, 

Whose patient lips are closed upon her pain. 

The other bounding to her cymbal’s clang, 

A bold Bacchante, panting with the race 
Of joy, the triumph, and the swift embrace; 

And, gathering in one cup the grapes that hang 
From every vine of Youth; around her head 
The royal roses bare their hearts of red; 

Music is on her lips, and from her face 
Fierce freedom shines, and wild alluring grace. 

. . . . Then I met her look, 

The conquering gaze of those bold eyes which made — 
Ah, God! the unrepented sin appear more fair 
Than Magdalene kneeling with her humbled hair. 

Or Agatha beneath the quaastor’s blade ! 


Bayard Taylor. 


AMPS were glimmering here and there along the city 



I J streets, as we passed on, choosing the most retired 
ways. Silently we threaded the half-lighted thoroughfares, 
each seemingly absorbed in reflection. I ran over our 
positions in my mind as we walked on. I had determined 
not to run the risk of again visiting the “Maison des 
Bijoux,” until after Sigismond’s return ; yet here I was 
as regularly pacing my way to it as though some strong 
hand were drawing me by a chain knotted around my 
body. Fate seemed weaving her spells about me ; and, by 
12 133 


134 


MY ROSES. 


a trifling occurrence, which had, nevertheless, taken the 
shape of a necessity which I could not avoid, I found my- 
self pursuing the path which led to its dreaded portal. A 
gentleman j I could not allow Coralie to find her way home 
alone ; and now the question arose, could my woman’s im- 
patience and curiosity be satisfied — seeing I was in a man- 
ner compelled to go there — to depart without an interview 
with Madame Lesueur in reference to that mysterious pic- 
ture and letter ? I began to feel that the temptation was 
greater than I could withstand. I began to be fired with 
the determination to take advantage of this opportunity, 
and, if possible, either ferret out or force the secrets of 
Madame’s all-concealing eyes ; I began to believe myself 
brave enough to go searching for secrets into the graves 
of the dead Past — even with her eyes, like ghouls, haunt- 
ing me at every step. I had been so racked by impatience, 
anxiety, and suspense, why not seek an interview with 
Madame Lesueur now, and end the matter at once? If I 
failed in eliciting the information which I coveted, and 
which I was confident she possessed, why — I should lose 
nothing ; but, if — ah ! if 1 should be able to fathom the 
mystery which surrounded Coralie, and prove that, by her 
birthright at least, she belonged to a higher and better 
sphere than this into which she appeared to have been 
cast by “ some disastrous fate,” what a triumph it would 
be to tell it all to Sigismond, upon his return ! And what 
happiness, to think that I, a woman, had been the means of 
assisting a lovely sister-woman, and placing her where God, 
when he created her pure, bright spirit, designed that she 
should stand ! My cheek glowed ; my heart bounded at 
the thought — I felt strong and brave, equal to the scene 
through which I knew I should be obliged to pass ; and, 
as we neared the house, my pulses throbbed full and regu- 
larly; the strong, persistent purpose had a calming effect 


MY ROSES. 


135 


upon me. I pressed Coralie’s hand, and whispered, “ I am 
going in with you, dearest. Will you hasten to Madame 
Lesueur, and ask her to ‘allow me the pleasure of an in- 
terview ? * I must find out something about that picture 
— and that this very night.” 

“ Oh ! Henri ; and will you tell her you have seen it — 
and how ? ” she asked, in startled tones. 

“ Certainly ; I shall tell her all about it — that is to say, 
if you are willing. Would it not be best?” 

“ Madame may think I have done wrong in showing it 
to you. What do you think?” she inquired, in reply. 

“ That you have done right, ma ch^re. If Madame should 
happen to difier with me — why, it ’s done now, and can’t 
be undone. I don’t see that it makes any great difierence 
what her opinion on the subject may be,” I replied. 

“ But I do, Henri,” said Coralie, in her soft, sweet tones. 
“I am grateful to Madame, and I would not give her an- 
noyance if I could avoid it. I do not wish to seem unkind 
or ungrateful to her, when I am not, Heaven knows.” 

“ And she knows it also,” I answered. “ But here we 
are, almost at your own door. Now, dearest Coralie, you 
must conduct me at once into Madame’s private parlor. 
If she is there, very well ; if she is not, you must find her 
immediately, and say that I wish to speak with her. Then 
go to your own room, but do not retire ,• it may be that I 
shall have a few words to say to you after I have seen the 
Madame. I cannot see you often, and I am so very anx- 
ious to bear you from this place. Let us go in now — Stay, 
nom de Dieu ! Stop a moment ! ” I exclaimed, springing 
back into the deep shadow and drawing my companion 
with me. And well it was that we had gone no farther, 
and that we gained the friendly shade of the wall as 
speedily as we did, for at that moment, coming up from the 
opposite side into the light of the doorway, we beheld one 


136 


MY EOSES. 


of the “young men about town,” arm in arm with Jules 
Berthel, who seemed something the worse for his after-din- 
der glass. 

Coralie’s arm trembled as I held it clasped, and I con- 
fess my own pulses beat a trifle faster. Had my gentle 
companion had time for thought, she would probably not 
have deemed me a very courageous cavalier ; but she did 
not appear to think of it, in her anxiety that I should avoid 
Berthel. “ How fortunate ! ” she breathed, as the two 
young men passed into the house just before us ; “ how 
fortunate you did not meet him ! They have entered — 
but, wait here one moment, until I speak to the servant who 
showed them in.” She darted ofi* as she spoke, without 
giving me time for a word ; and in a minute or two flut- 
tered back to me, exclaiming, in an undertone, “ It *8 all 
right. Monsieur Berthel did not ask for me ; he called for 
Marguerite, to whom he wishes to present a friend of his, 
and they have gone into the salon. We can enter now.” 

Drawing her arm in mine again, we passed in : she half- 
opened the door of the private parlor, ushering me in, and 
whispered, “ I will send Madame directly : do not on any 
account leave without seeing me. I could not bear — I 
must know the result of your interview.” She glided away, 
and as she passed down the hall, I heard her say to the 
servant in waiting, “No one enters there to-night but 
Madame herself — you understand, Jean?” 

“ Oui, mademoiselle.” 

The door closed, and I found myself once more in that 
luxurious apartment, with its sumptuous appointments, its 
atmosphere of heavy fragrance, its soft, shaded light, and 
its general air of sensuous, Circean enchantment. And, 
directly before me, a fitting presiding spirit of the scene, 
stood Marguerite — a superb embodiment of ripe and 
glowing beauty, born, it seemed, to burn, bewilder, and, 


MY ROSES. 


137 


alas ! perhaps betray, all who came under the spell of her 
magnetic influence. She was pacing softly to. and fro as I 
entered; and now she merely paused a moment, bowed 
slightly, and resumed her walk. And as I threw myself 
upon the nearest sofa — agitated a very little now that 
the long-expected hour of meeting Madame Lesueur had 
actually arrived, and not a little puzzled to decide upon 
the best manner of opening this delicate investigation — I 
could not but remark and admire the magnificent-looking 
woman before me, and compare her in my mind to some 
gorgeous tropical blossom, swaying to and fro upon the 
summer sea. The motion was so silent, so effortless, re- 
minding one of nothing but rich blooms borne on the ebb 
and flow of waves. What a woman was Marguerite ! A 
creature overflowing with a warm, dark-blooded vitality 
— one of those beings whose imperious pulses throb with a 
free, full life — whose senses are so many gates through 
which the flood-tide of human enjoyment flows — beings 
formed expressly for Love and Luxury, and to whom 
pride, passion, and pleasure are as necessary as the air they 
breathe. Levelling, as she did, in all the opulence of 
physical beauty — of a nature half-sensuous, half-poetic — 
with a spirit of fire, and a heart wherein I felt assured 
that some good still lingered, I experienced a strong and 
increasing interest in her; and this led me to wonder 
to myself how she came to be in her present position. 
I knew nothing of her past, or the circumstances which 
had brought about her fatal presenty but I felt that it 
was the result of some sudden and fearful crisis in her 
young life, and that she had not always been a “ lost god- 
dess, with a sullied name.” In some fatal hour, when 
her guardian angel slumbered, or, sadder still, perchance 
had “ turned away,” her moral sense had grown bewildered, 
her brain become confused by the intoxication of some sub- 
12 * 


138 


MY ROSES. 


tie temptation, and she had fallen — never, alas ! never to 
rise again. Yet, ah! how beautiful she was — and how 
very different from Coralie. Titian might have created 
the one, with his gorgeous pencil and burning dyes ; 
Raphael alone could have faithfully portrayed the other, 
and that with his hues of heaven. 

As these thoughts floated across my mind. Marguerite 
paused directly in front of me, waving a folded newspaper 
which she held in her hand, after the manner of a fan, and 
said, with an odd, half - mocking, half - patronizing smile, 
“How we are improving! You must allow me to con- 
gratulate you. Monsieur d’Herbelot, in that you have been 
able so soon to slip your leading-strings. You are here, I 
see — actually Aere, and without your masculine bonne, the 
Senor d’ Alvarez. You are an apt pupil, Tjfion petit.” 

“ Oui, mademoiselle, je vous remercie,” I replied with real 
nonchalance. Her remarks and tone would have enraged 
a hoy, according to her intention ; but they had no such 
efiect upon me. “ That you see me here alone, is true,” I 
continued ; “ a good purpose often provides us with cour- 
age, you know.” 

She laughed in my face — a short, sudden, contemptuous 
laugh ; and said, abruptly, “ Don’t trouble yourself to be 
hypocritical, little gentleman. It is n’t worth your while 
to put on the ‘ good boy ’ in gilt labels, for my benefit — 
that won’t pay, with me : a mere waste of labels, which 
you will need to use in presence of your family and friends. 
I am well aware of the ‘ good purpose ’ that brings you 
here : it is not an unusual thing — in fact, it is a very 
general thing, that people come here for ‘ good purposes.’ 
‘ Hell,’ they say, is ‘ paved with good intentions ’ — doubt- 
less, this establishment (which is a ‘branch’ of the former) 
can boast of a somewhat similar flooring. But, you see 
how soft it is — how your ‘ good intentions ’ yield to Pas- 


MY ROSES. 


139 


sion or Pleasure — thus ; ” and she pressed her shapely slip- 
pered foot down upon that carpet of brilliant and moss-like 
velvet, until it sank, seemingly, over the slipper — half- 
buried, as it were, among the rich and glowing flowers. 
Drawing back, she resumed her walk — only she paced now 
in front of my sofa ; and continued speaking, more to her- 
self than to me: “ Yes — a little pressure from human will, 
or human passion, and your ‘good intentions’ give way, and 
are lost amid the senses’ soft and glowing blooms.” Then 
facing me again, she added : “ I speak thus to warn you. 
Monsieur Henri. You love Coralie Lesueur, and you are 
endeavoring to win her away from us ; whether or not your 
‘intentions’ are good — as you have boasted — I think you 
scarcely know yourself. Doubtless, you flatter yourself 
that they are ; I, perhaps, read you more truthfully. You 
are young yet — not strong enough to stand up facing a 
wicked action, and plunge into it despite its wickedness : 
nay, for a while 5mt, you will gloss it over with a ‘ good 
intention.’ But let me whisper to you, young gentleman, 
your dainty robe of ‘ good purpose ’ hides a cloven foot ; 
and, as one of your poets has it — 

‘ The devil ’s most devilish when respectable ! ’ ” 

“ Marguerite ! ” I broke forth impulsively, despite the 
bitter sneer which darkened her splendid face as she hissed 
in my ear the word “respectable,” — “Marguerite! I can 
call upon God, and all his angels, to bear witness to the 
purity — the disinterestedness — the — ” 

“ Stop there I ” she interrupted, in a sharp, sudden way ; 
“ no oaths — I know the worth of men’s vows. The com- 
modity is stale. And, if you please, ^ake your language 
intelligible. Leave your gods and angels to children, and 
talk — if you must talk — about men and women. There 
are such things — in form, at least ” Her tone was deep 
and incisive beyond conception. 


140 


MY ROSES. 


**Fardonnez. Words are wasted upon you, I fear, made- 
moiselle,” I said, coolly. “ I foresee that anything I may 
say will not have the honor of your credence. We will not 
quarrel about that. You believe there are such things as 
men and womOn — but a good man, or a noble woman, you 
don’t believe in. I do : and therein lies the difference.” 

She laughed again, quietly, and looked out at me from 
between half-lowered, level eyelids, as one might regard 
the sallies of some precocious child. “ Said I not that we 
were improving?” she spoke, at length. “You read me 
admirably. Monsieur Petit. Certainly, I should not trou- 
ble myself to credit your protestations, for the reason that 
you would put yourself to extraordinary trouble to tell 
me everything but — the truth. Believe in what you are 
pleased to style a * good man ’ ? Never ! Had I the men- 
tal force of all your mythical angels, I should never be 
equal to that. If God created meri, I conclude, that, by 
this time. He is heartily ashamed of his work ; and has 
determined, in his own mind, that he is not much of a deity 
after all — or his creations would be more to the purpose.” 

“ As a man, I have nothing to say in favor of my sex ; 
your judgment shall be mine. It is rude to dispute the 
word of a lady. But what say you to the ‘noble woman ’? 
Is there such a phenomenon ? ” 

She seemed to like my cool, sarcastic tone, for she smiled 
approvingly, and said: “Yes, senor, I grant that such a 
thing may exist : something as we grant there is in the 
world a city of Paris, though we have never seen it, and 
never expect to. To find such a wOman, however, is like 
sending one out int(^the swamps here to find a particular 
leaf. It is a leaf — somewhat peculiar, somehow to be iden- 
tified — and verily somewhere in all those miles of forest. 
The leaf exists, no doubt ; but I misdoubt if, under these 
circumstances, you discover it, nevertheless.” 


MY ROSES. 


141 


“Have you never found such a leaf— a ‘noble wo- 
man * ? ” I asked. 

“ I? Not I ! If I had, I should not have been, perhaps 
— what I am to-night. If I could find such a leaf, I would 
cherish it evermore as a talisman, by which I, too, should be- 
come — a saint, probably — who knows? ” and she laughed 
again, as though she spoke it all in jest. “ Yet stay ; I 
am too fast,” she said, a moment afterward. “ I do believe 
that I have once, just once in my life, found what would 
make that magic, all-healing, talismanic leaf, ‘ a good wo- 
man,’ if it grew anywhere save in this noisome, pestilentiak 
swamp here; and that creature who, if she could, would 
make a ‘noble woman’ is — Coralie Lesueur. It was for 
her sake, because she is more like ‘ good ’ than anything I 
ever saw, that I have spoken to you to-night. I warn you 
solemnly, never to make her less ‘ good.’ ” 

“Your warning is wholly unnecessary, mademoiselle. 
Coralie shall never sufifer wrong by any act of mine. I 
could—” 

“ Do not add direct falsehood to your very honest ‘ in- 
tentions,’ ” she sneered. “ I am well aware what all that 
amounts to. What do men generally make of the woman 
they ‘ love ’ so devotedly, and toward whom they always 
entertain such saintly ‘ intentions ’ ? I will tell you : slaves, 
or serpents, or suicides ? I will read you a description of 
how women can be manufactured into outcasts by this same 
potential power — a man's ‘ love' It was this very article, 
hit upon by accident, which determined me to remain 
here and speak to you, though others are waiting for me, 
even now.” She shook out the paper which she had been 
using as a fan, and, stepping nearer to the lamp, with the 
air of an inspired Pythoness, and in tones whose remem- 
brance thrills me even yet, she read : 


142 


MY E0SE8 


THE PARIAH. 

[As if she were a part of the wrecks cast out by the waves, and 
left to corruption and decay, the girl we had followed stood on the 
river’s brink, in the midst of this night-picture, lonely and still, 
looking down into the water. — Dickens.] 

. . . . Dark lay the sullen scene. 

Like a foul plague-spot slowly deepening 

In Nature’s bosom. Dim and drearily 

The din of multitudes came up 

From the close, crowded city ; yet this spot 

Was lonely as the grave; and through the chill 

And melancholy waste the river wound 

Like a dull earthworm through a sepulchre. 

In vaulted vastness rose the storming sky ; 

And the wild winds, like prisoned birds of prey. 

Flew shrieking round the impenetrable gloom 
That barred the black horizon; while afar 
The thunder’s hollow warning crept along 
The troubled night-sky ; and the stars were hid 
Close in their cloudy caverns. Desolate 
A low street, with its crumbling tenements. 

Lay by the river’s margin: on the brink 

The rank grass nodded ; poison-weeds held up 

Their livid chalices and baneful leaves 

Spotted as with a leprosy. Above 

Rose the rude battlements and rereward walls 

Of a deserted citadel ; and o’er 

The turbid waters stretched a ruined bridge 

Like a huge, mouldering skeleton ; its lamp 

Burned, a low, lurid beacon, and the light 

Writhed like a serpent on the inky flood 

That murmured through the arches. 

Cowering 

’Mid the dark foliage and slimy stones. 

As if in misery to stifle shame, 

Crouched the poor Pariah. Betrayed, alone. 

Lost utterly, yet strangely beautiful, 

As some wan, wildered blossom hanging on 


MY ROSES 


143 


The haggard brow of Ruin! Wondrous fair 
The slender fingers clenching aimlessly 
At the polluted plants ; all wild the cloud 
Of raven tresses from the forehead flung ; 

Sunk the despairing eye as if to hide, 

Within its own deep darkness, from the light’s 
Insulting sneer. She shuddered when the flash 
Of the far lightning fell athwart her brow, 

As if it were a demon’s kiss : and when 
The keen and icy wind struck sharply through 
Her white and faded bosom, she would start 
With a quick agony, as though the beak 
Of some fierce vulture fastened in her heart. 

To her the Present was a dreary realm 
Peopled with dreams of horror : to the Past 
She dared not now return ; for Sin and Shame, 

Two gaunt-eyed sentinels, stood frowningly 
Beside the portal ; and the Future? ah! 

Its very thought was insupportable. 

She looked a moment to the starless sky — 

Its thunder-voice rebuked her for the glance — 
Never a light of Heaven’s was there — for her. 

She heard the sullen, sounding waters dash 
On the old dungeon- walls — then fall again 
From the rude stone-work, like the troubled stream 
Of her affections wasted on a heart 
That cast it off with scorn: she saw the tide 
Sweep swiftly through the bridge’s caverned arch ; 
And to her gaze it seemed the Gate of Death, 
Barred by a flaming serpent’s hideous coil. 

Her heart was broken. Not one hope illumed 
Its shattered chambers ; and existence seemed 
One mighty multitude of mocking eyes. 

And hissing tongues, that stung her sullied soul 
To madness. From the frozen lips up-rose 
The moan of an unspoken prayer ; a name 
She called, as softly as our spirits breathe 
Of one the Lord has taken ; yet ’t was his 
Who robbed the soul-shrine of its precious pearl, 


144 


MY ROSES. 


To melt it in a cup of bitterness 

And unavailing tears. — Then upward rose, 

O’er the wild, wailing winds, the wilder cry 
Of human agony ; a surging plunge 
Parted the inky flood j^a white arm broke 
The serpent-barrier, then sank beneath 
The blackened archway ; and the haunted shore 
Was blank and lone! 

Thus perished the Betrayed ! 

The Tempter, deep betrayer, murderer^ 

Stood, with unblushing front and haughty eye. 

Amid the circles of the proud and gay ; 

Men took his hand ; and high-born Beauty bowed 
To list his flatteries, unheeding all 
A sister’s ruined fame and broken heart. 

And lone, cold slumber — where the river moans 
Her requiem ! 

Rachel nor Ristori, in their palmiest days, could have 
surpassed that unrivalled reading. Shaken to the very 
depths of her powerful, passionate nature, she threw her 
whole soul intd the rendering ; and the effect upon me was 
almost superhuman. What a grand interpreter of pathos and 
passion was lost to the world when this stately Marguerite 
recklessly registered herself among its truly “lost”! Yet 
I think she was wholly unconscious of her power; for, 
while my hair rose on my head, and every nerve within 
me was still thrilling with the magic of her utterance and 
action, she turned, threw the paper from her, and advanced 
toward me. Bending down upon me a pair of glowing, 
glorious eyes — 

“ Full of dark witchery, like wandering fire 
Far-shining down a fathomless abyss ” — 

she said: “My time is short; but of one thing I must 
warn you. Beware how you bring upon Coralie Lesueur 
the doom of that dead woman ; dead — and, if there be a 


MY ROSES. 


145 


hell, damned! You see this?” and placing her hand 
upon her bodice, she held up a keen, slender, blue blade, 
which flashed and glittered in the soft light — “ you see 
it?” 

I assented. 

“ Very well. Dare to wrong the one creature in all the 
world that I love — the single creature in all this world 
who has ever shed a tear over the miseries of poor, lost 
Marguerite — Marguerite both dead and damned ; and this 
shall find your heart — if, indeed, being a man, you possess 
one I Remember ! ” 

Springing up from the sofa, I caught her uplifted arm ; 
clenching tightly in both mine the hand in which the dag- 
ger flashed and blazed, I drew it down to her side, and 
said, softly, “ Be still, now. Believe me, you will never 
use it. Marguerite. But, oh ! say not, ‘ lost Marguerite ^ — 
for you are not ‘ lost ’ ! There are pure feelings in your 
heart ; noble impulses in your nature, all powerful for your 
redemption still. Ah 1 Marguerite, 

‘ The sunshine, broken in the rill, 

Though warped aside, is sunshine still; ’ 

and, if you would but look above, to the Great Source of 
all the soul’s light — if you would but pray — ” 

“ Ofi*! ” she cried, flinging away my hands, and drawing 
up her superb figure to its full commanding height with 
-a haughty which was indescribable — almost sub- 
lime. “Ofi*!” she repeated; “yoit — a man — and dare 
preach to me! Begone! Down — down into the dens 
where you send the souls of women such as I was oncey to 
rot and rankle, to burn and blacken forevermore ! Back ! 
back into the hells you kindle for poor, worn, and weary 
hearts — which, ere you met them, were as soft as the sweet 
south, and pure as Zembla’s snows ! ” And as I sank back 
13 


146 


MY ROSES. 


half cowering from the hot lances of her glowing eyes, she 
threw aloft her arm, with the dagger gleaming and flashing 
about her head, and poured forth upon me, in words of 
power, such a portraiture / With a fearful vividness, she 
pictured their life — the struggle with want, and woe, and 
wretchedness — the horrible shapes of sin, and misery, and 
despair which surround that deep - seated social cancer ; 
and oh ! with what heart-crushing pathos she wailed the 
curse that had fallen upon her young life — with what 
heart-chilling energy and earnestness she flung back upon 
the souls of men the curses and the shame ! Bold, rapid, 
and fiery — impetuous as a torrent in its flow — scathing 
like hot lava whatever it touched — I could remember no- 
thing of the words ; but the spirit, the fierceness, and the 
force might have crushed an angel — had he been guilty. 
Something it was like the language which Mrs. Browning 
has since given to “ Marian Erie ; ” only diflering as the char- 
acter of Marguerite difiers from that of the gentle Marian. 

“ And you call it being ‘ lost,* 

That next day’s noon came down, and found me there 
Half-gibbering and half-raving on the floor, 

And wondering what had happened up in heaven 
That suns should dare to shine, when God himself 
Was certainly abolished! 

True, 

We wretches cannot tell out all our wrong 
Without offence to decent^ happy folk. 

I know that we must scrupulously hint 
With half-words, delicate reserves, the thing 
Which no one scrupled we should feel in full ! 

I went forth headlong, over a precipice. 

In such a swirl of hell-foam caught, and choked, 

No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce through . 

To fetch me help. They say there ’s help in heaven 
For all such cries. But if one cries from hell. 

What then ? The heavens are deaf upon that side! ” 


MY KOSES, 


147 


In the wild earnestness and energy of her denunciations, 
fully forgetting herself, Marguerite had scarce time to bring 
down her defiant arm, and thrust the stiletto into her silken 
bodice, when the soft, stealthy step of Madame Lesueur 
was heard at the door, and that dignified personage entered, 
full-blown in her delicate rouge and ample flounces. 

“ Marguerite ! ” she ejaculated — surprised out of her 
usual studied equanimity for a moment ; but instantly re- 
collecting herself, she added, in a kindly tone, “ Why are 
you here, mademoiselle ? Do you not know that fully half 
an hour has passed since Monsieur Berthel requested your 
presence in the salon 

‘‘ Ouiy madame,” answered the spoiled beauty, with cool 
carelessness ; “ but Monsieur Berth§l, or Monsieur anybody 
else, can wait. To entertain your young friend here until 
you came, I was endeavoring to show him how Signorina — 
who was it? — used to * do ^ the Medea at the Opera House 
last winter. Magnificent aflTair — was it not, Senor Petit f ** 
she added, turning to me with the old mocking smile in 
her eye, and the contemptuous curl upon her red, ripe lips. 
Then, with a slight courtesy, and *‘£on soir, mes amieSy* 
she was gone. 


CHAPTER XL 


SEAECHING FOE SECEETS. 

And no one said to me, “ Why mournest thou ? ” 

Because she was the unknown child of shame, 

(Albeit her mother better kept the vow 
Of faithful love, than some who keep their fame.) 

Poor mother and poor child ! . . . 

Oh ! many a hopeless love like this may be. 

For love will live that never looks to win ; 

Gems, rashly lost in Passion’s stormy sea. 

Ne’er to be lifted forth, when once cast in ! 

Mrs. Norton. 

B eautiful creature — but a little ‘wild,’’’ apolo- 
gized Madame Lesueur, in that half-approving, half- 
deprecating way, adopted by anxious mammas when ex- 
cusing certain “ raids ” which h9ydenish daughters are apt 
to make upon the intrenchments of the staid “proprieties.” 
It was admirably assumed — a stranger would not have 
detected the difference between her feeling and that of the 
anxious mamma. The lady then came forward to an easy 
fauteuil, where the light of the shaded lamp fell softly, 
and gracefully motioned me to a seat directly opposite her 
own. Evidently the position was a favorite one ; had been 
rehearsed over and over again, and Madame Lesueur knew 
very well in what light, shade, and pose she appeared to 
the greatest advantage. Altogether, as she sat there in 
that lustrous atmosphere, (for the room seemed luminous 
rather than lighted,) so perfectly self-poised, so well cos- 
tumed, and apparently so anxious to please, she was rather 

148 


MY ROSES. 


149 


a fine-looking person. Her figure was stately, if not full ; 
her complexion “wonderfully made,” and her eyes had 
lost, in a measure, the steely, hungry look which had so 
confused me upon our former meeting. 

“ And now,” began the lady blandly, as the diamond- 
dropped fingers of one large hand beat a tattoo upon the 
marble table at her side, “I must crave your pardon. 
Monsieur d’Herbelot, for detaining you. When a servant 
brought me Mademoiselle Coralie’s whispered message, I 
was engaged. While Jean was inquiring everywhere for 
la belle Marguerite, I was entertaining Monsieur Berthel 
myself, in my own sitting-room.” 

“ Ah ! pardon me, madame ; but does Monsieur Berthel 
know that I — that I am here?” I broke forth, awkwardly 
and bluntly enough, it must be confessed. 

“Certainly not, my dear sir. Your being here is your 
afiair, not his; is it not?” she answered with a half-smile, 
at my gaucherie, no doubt. “ But now, in return for your 
question, may I ask to what I am indebted for the honor 
of your visit this evening?” 

“ With great propriety ; and I shall be most happy, 
madame, to answer you plainly and truthfully,” I replied, 
as I rose, and, going to the door, turned the key, and then 
resumed my seat. 

“ No necessity for that, sir ; no one intrudes Aere,” said 
the lady, glancing round the elegant apartment with an air 
that seemed to say, “ Let them dare do it ! ” “ And from 

this,” she added aloud, “ I infer that you desire our con- 
ference to be a secret one.” 

“ Strictly so, if you please, madame. Our interview con- 
cerns only you, myself, and one other.” 

“ Ah ! in that case I divine your errand, monsieur. I 
foresaw this — you love my niece. Pray, proceed, sir,” 
bowed the lady ; and I took her at her word : I did “ pro- 
|3* 


150 


MY ROSES. 


ceed.” Plunging at once into the subject, as usual, I 
poured forth assurances of my love for Coralie, and my 
desires concerning her future life ; gave rapid reviews of 
our meetings at Carrollton, the Place d’Armes, and the 
Cathedral ; I narrated, circumstantially, all that had oc- 
curred in regard to the picture and letter ; in short, I made 
a full, free, rapid, and eloquent confession ; and concluded 
with an appeal to her sympathies (?) and a demand to 
know the original of the portrait, and author of the letter. 
She had started visibly, despite her self-possession, and 
half risen from her seat, as I recounted Coralie’s abstrac- 
tion of those telltale (or, rather tell-nought') articles from 
her writing-desk ; but, as I proceeded, she calmed down, 
apparently, and sank back upon the fauteuil. Yet, I could 
see it was a forced calm, and that, notwithstanding her 
nerves were “ ironed down,” she was perceptibly agitated. 
My mission was not exactly what she had anticipated. 
She sat looking at me with half-lowered lids, the trenchant 
blades of those eyes again transfixing my whole being, as 
though they would lay bare every thought and feeling. 

“ May I ask again, madame, who is the original of that 
portrait, and the writer of that mutilated letter ? ” I ex- 
claimed, with deep earnestness and energy. 

“ Certainly, senor. You are at liberty to inquire just as 
often as it may suit your fancy to do so,” she replied, with 
inimitable coolness. 

“ But I am here for the very purpose of investigating 
this matter — and it must be done, madame,” I uttered, 
somewhat imperiously. 

“Oh — oh! you are. Very well, sir; proceed with your 
investigation : you will oblige me by commencing at once,” 
the lady responded, with a slight smile. 

“It is a matter,” I continued, “which is of vital interest. 
For the happiness of Coralie, and for my own, it must be 


MY ROSES. 


151 


looked into and unravelled. More — it must be done 
quickly ; for I cannot, and will not, endure this suspense.’^ 

“ You are quite right in your determination, I dare say 
— so I would advise your ‘ looking into it ’ immediately,” 
replied the Madame, again bringing her bediamonded 
fingers into play upon the marble. The stone itself was 
not more impassive than she. 

“ But I must have your co-operation, madame.” 

“Ah! well said, my young friend. You have been 
some time in making this important discovery. That^ how- 
ever, was a ‘step in the right direction/ Secure my co- 
operation, and you may be able to commence your investi- 
gation,” she calmly replied. 

“ Will you be kind enough to inform me how that can 
be done ? ” I asked, quickly. 

She laughed — that short, disagreeable laugh which had 
grated on my ear once before ; and said, after a pause, “ I 
see plainly. Monsieur d’Herbelot, that you know nothing 
whatever about conducting an investigation. You do not 
even understand the first principles.” 

“ If you will do me the kindness to name them, I will 
set myself to study them immediately,” I replied. 

“No doubt of it, senor. Let me think a moment : you 
love Coralie. What is your family and position ? ” 

“ Of the very best in Louisiana, madame.” 

“ Ah ! say you so ? In what part of the State do you 
reside ? ” 

“ Pardon me ; that is my affair.” 

“True ; and has no connection with the subject in hand, 
you would add. I asked because I have inquired of sev- 
eral gentlemen who visit my house, and no one appears to 
have any knowledge of you. Even Monsieur Berthel, who 
seems to know everybody, said he had never before heard 
of Monsieur d’Herbelot. Your likeness to that picture 


152 


MY ROSES. 


prompted me to those inquiries. And, by-the-by, I do not 
see that striking resemblance to-night, as I did at our first 
meeting. It was, I presume, a passing fancy.’’ 

“ Let us return to ‘ first principles,’ if you please, ma- 
dame.” 

“ Ah ! truly, you are right, sir,” and she smiled again. 
“ Belonging to one of the ‘ first families,’ you have a for- 
tune at your disposal? Your family is a wealthy one?” 
queried the lady. 

“That is understood, is it not? ” I queried in turn ; and 
again she smiled, this time patronizingly. 

“And you would make Coralie your wife?” she added, 
after a brief pause. The blood rushed into my face — here 
w^as a dilemma ! 

Pardonnez — je vous prie — but I — ” and what upon 
earth I intended to say, I cannot tell. Whatever it was, 
I lost it instantly, and Madame Lesueur seemed to enjoy 
my confusion. Flattering herself that she divined the 
cause, (and how very wide it was of the truth !) she said, 
in her cool, calm-considering way, “ Don’t mind it. There 
is no necessity for blushes ; you are young, monsieur, very 
young , with a strong emphasis on the adjective, and a 
tone which might lead one to suppose that youth was a 
most deplorable infirmity. 

“ I only meant to say, madame, that in consideration of 
my family, and my honor as a gentleman, I suppose that 
also is understood,” I said, clearing the difficulty at a 
bound. 

“Were you an older man, and more experienced in 
what the world calls ‘ honor,’ etc., there would be two ways 
of understanding your last remark,” she replied, slowly. 
“It would conflict with the family and personal ‘honor’ 
of many men to wed Coralie from this house; while it 
would not conflict with their ‘honor’ in the least to-— sink 


MY ROSES. 


153 


her to perdition. But, I accept the meaning which I am 
sure you intended, and am satisfied.” 

‘ First principles,’ now madame — it grows late,” I 
said, looking at my watch. Her eyes gleamed as they fell 
upon the trinket, which was set with small diamonds, and 
she replied : “ The first principles of an ‘ investigation,’ 
Monsieur d’Herbelot, are finesse and — money ! ” 

I caught her meaning instantly. Vexation ! how obtuse 
not to have known it before ! I must buy the secret, not 
beg it. Money ? why, I had money — and I remembered 
the leathern case containing the bank notes, which my 
father had given me. I pulled it at 'once from my side- 
pocket — with it came the little pistol, and, upon the im- 
pulse of the moment, I cocked the weapon and aimed it at 
her bosom with one hand, while I clenched the case with 
the other, and exclaimed, excitedly, “ That for your secret, 
this for your silence ! ” and held the muzzle within a few 
inches of her heart. Her breathing did not quicken ; her 
eyelids did not even fall, as, with that same dry smile, she 
put out her hand, took the leathern book from mine, and 
began leisurely to count its contents, saying, as with a nod 
she indicated the pistol: “As well put that up, senor. 
Such things make a noise.” And she coolly went to work, 
counting the money twice over, that there might be no 
mistake ! 

“ Five hundred in bills — very good notes, too — no dis- 
count,” she half soliloquized ; “one hundred in gold — six 
— not a very great amount, after all ; but I presume all 
your pocket-money, at present, monsieur. But then — 
there ’s the watch ; I suppose you would part with that also, 
for a good secret ? ” I laid it in her extended, grasping palm. 

“And how much might this be worth ? It ’s a tiny afiair 
— looks as though it ought to belong to a lady,” she said, 
regarding the brilliant setting. 


154 


MY BOSES. 


“ It cost four hundred dollars, madame/^ 

“Six and four — ten; a thousand dollars. Well, that 
will do for the present. It might be more and please me 
better — but, if you say so, monsieur, it shall be a bargain. 
All the information I am able to afford in reference to 
Coralie and that picture, and then — this is mine,” and she 
grasped the money and watch tightly in both her large, 
greedy hands. 

“I agree to that, madame,” I replied, regarding her 
with cold contempt; “and, as the last of my availables at 
present, you may take this also,” and I handed out the 
gold-mounted pistol? 

“ Thank you ! you may keep that to assassinate flies,” 
she answered, with her peculiar, grating laugh. “ Besides, 
young gentlemen should never threaten ladies. Think how 
you have acted toward me. I did not expect you — faire 
le mauvais. Take away the little toy — I don’t like them 
— ^they are noisy. These are better — much better ; they 
tell no tales to near policemen ; ” and touching a golden 
chain which hung at her belt, she half drew from the folds 
of her ample robe a keen and glittering blade ; then sunk 
it again as quickly into the sheath. “ Heavens ! what a 
set of women !” was my mental ejaculation. “Are they 
all so bloodthirsty ? ” 

“ Are we agreed, senor ? ” she said, looking into my face, 
and meeting unconcernedly my glance of astonishment. I 
bowed assent. I was beginning to understand her, and to 
keep as cool as possible, since the more anxiety I exhibited, 
the more she was inclined to trifle with my feelings. 

“ Very well,” she replied. “ And now for my story — 
which is brief and simple. First of all, then, Coralie is 
not my niece — no drop of kindred blood runs in her blue 
veins and mine ! She — ” 

“Thank God for that!” I burst out — it seemed as 


MY ROSES. 


155 


though a mountain had been lifted from my brain and 
heart. 

“ You are pleased to be complimentary, monsieur — but 
nHmporte” said this strange woman. She paused for more 
than a minute ; her eyes cast down, and a shade — yes, 
wonderful to see ! an expression of real feeliug stole slowly 
into the still, impassive face. She was going back into the 
Past, and old memories stirred within her calloused heart. 
When she spoke again I started — scarcely believing it 
was her voice — so changed, so melancholy. “Yes,” she 
resumed, “ I am all alone in the world. I have no real 
claim even upon Coralie — the only thing I have had to 
love for many and many a day.” 

Now I was more astonished than ever : the idea of that 
stony, selfish woman experiencing a ‘ love ’ for anything — 
save money ! I could scarce credit my senses. She went on : 
“It was in the summer of 1834, about the fifth day of 
June, I think — (the date inscribed on the picture is the 
first of June) — I was then living in a very poor way in 
Natchez, Mississippi — the wife of a year ; and, though 
honest and faithful, still a deserted wife, with a dying 
babe on my bosom. On that evening, a young woman, 
with a babe in her arms, came up from a Southern boat 
which had touched at the wharf — to my little dwelling, 
which stood near the landing — ‘ under the hill ’ as it is 
called — and begged the shelter of my poor roof, that she 
might not die in the open streets. She was lovely — oh ! 
very lovely. Coralie, in despair, half-frenzied, and dying, 
as she was, would be just her image. She was broken- 
hearted, like myself; so I never asked her name, or family, 
or history, but laid down my baby, and fixed my only 
bed for her; for she was, as I said, just at death’s door — 
and I believe, half-crazed with grief and pain. Her babe, 
she said, was five days old — having been born on the first 


156 


MY ROSES. 


of the month ; and here she was, walking from the boat 
and carrying it : it was the last time, poor thing ! She 
had come up on the boat, from below, but from what 
point I never asked, for she died that very night — and no 
wonder ; and my baby died too. It was laid away next 
day in the pauper’s burying-ground, on her bosom ; and 
I took her child to mine. It was a great comfort to me — 
Coralie always has been ; and I have loved her well. I 
longed to have her call me mother, but she grew up so 
beautiful and so unlike me, that I decided to call her a 
niece. She is not even that, however ; and I thank God 
for it sometimes — when I feel softened, and more human 
— as I do now. When I was preparing her mother for the 
grave, I found that picture and letter in the bosom of the 
dress she wore, and that was all. There was no mark upon 
her linen, which was fine and costly, though her outer garb 
was common enough for a servant. There were a few 
dollars in her pocket — scarcely enough to pay for her 
poor grave and carrying her to it — and that is all. Now 
Monsieur d’ — ” 

“You surely do not mean to say that, after all, you do 
not know who is, or was, the original of that picture, or 
who wrote the letter ? ” I cried, interrupting her, in my 
agony of impatience. 

“ No more than you do, sir ? ” was the exasperating reply. 
“As I told you, the young mother died, and ‘made no 
sign.’ I had neither the time nor the heart to ask her 
questions. It might have been the father of her child, 
young and boyish as it looks ; it might have been a brother, 
though it does not resemble what she was ; and I fancied it 
resembled you. I could not trouble the poor thing then 
with questions — she was nearly gone. She may have been 
a poor deserted creature like myself, or she may have been 
worse. She bore a broken heart, sir ; and so did I — and 


MY ROSES. 


157 


that was enough.” The voice grew husky and tremulous 

— and a tear dropped from her downcast eyes upon the 
jewelled hand which lay in her lap — and glittered there; 
the most precious jewel of them all ! After a pause, she 
resumed, in a low, sad tone : “ I need not tell you, monsieur, 
of my succeeding life. I will not attempt to justify my- 
self — but simply say that what I am, man’s cruelty and 
injustice have made me — let that suffice. Two years ago 
I came to this city. I purchased this property of Monsieur 
Berth^l, and I still owe him money. He oppresses me 
greatly ; for I am not rich — our way of life does not 
allow us to become so — often. We dress, it is true — that 
is a part of our vocation ; but I am poor, still. He has sworn 
to me a thousand times that he will give up every bond he 
holds against me, if I will give him — mon Dieu! — think 
of it, monsieur — Coralie ! Sell the child to him, body 
and soul ! never, never, so help me God ! I am not sunk 
low enough for that — we will die in the streets first. This 
money will help me much ; and though I know ’t is a mean 
act to take it as I do, I take it to satisfy this man a little 
longer, and save Coralie for the time from his persecutions. 
This very night, when she sent for me to say that you were 
here, he was driving me to desperation by his threats and 
his. entreaties. Must I take it, monsieur?'^ 

“ All — all — would it were ten times as much,” I cried. 

And now go, and send Coralie to me ; I must tell her all 
this before I leave — ” 

“ Stay ! ” she whispered ; “ let me think. Will that do 

— is it not too soon to tell her ? ” 

“ I must tell her, madame, and that immediately.” 

“Well, well. She is discreet; I presume ’tis just as 
well now as again. I will tell her to come. We may 
meet again to-night — if not, hon soir” 

I rose, accompanied her to the door, and, unlocking it, 
14 


158 


MY EOSES. 


allowed her to pass out. I stood behind it, the knob in my 
hand : through the small opening, I heard her say, politely, 
“You are not going? Excuse me, sir, but I wish to speak, 
for a few moments, with Monsieur Berthel.” 

“ Perfectly, and always, at your service, madam e. Wait 
for me at the St. Charles, Mowbray,” said the deep voice 
of Jules Berthel. Then, some one descended the door- 
steps; I heard Marguerite’s joyless laugh, as she came 
from the salon; and, finally, footsteps sounded as though 
going back, in the direction of the sitting-room — then all 
was silent. I closed the door, and sat down to wait for 
Coralie. 


CHAPTER XII 


BETKAYED.” 

She was tall, and fair, 

And in her summer’s prime ; 

Her feet were snowy feet, 

And faultless as a rhyme 
When ’t is true ; 

And her eyes were made of heaven's 
Fire and dew ! 

In the kirk-yard let her lie ! 

Let the thistles and the burrs 
Cover up that life of hers. 

Well-a-day ! 

’T is sad to see a flower 
Bead in May ! 

Now, Lord Nial sails the sea. 

And he laughs above his wine : 

But he never, never thinks 
Of the Lily of Loch-Ine. 

May the storms 

Smite him as he sails, and the sea 
Crush him in its arms ! 

Ballad. 

S tillness reigned throughout the house for some 
minutes, except that, at intervals, a low sound of 
voices in the saloon, softened by closed doors, penetrated 
to the apartment where I stood — and once, when the voice 
of some singer, at the piano, arose, seeming to come from 
afar. The instrument could scarcely be heard at all, save 
in the pauses of the voice ; but the air was wild and sad 

159 


160 


MY ROSES. 


• — more like a dirge than a song. It was one I had heard 
before, sung to a ballad called “ Betrayed,” commencing, 

“She was tall, and fair. 

And in her summer’s prime.” 

The voice that sang was sweet and clear, with a sort of 
mellow, mournful wailing in each closing cadence, that 
went to the very soul. I remembered the fair girl, with 
the statue-like shoulders and antique Greek face, whom I ^ 
had seen at the piano on my first visit to this house — and 
wondered if this singer could be she. Somehow, the music 
made me think of a fragile boat freighted with one solitary 
human soul, far out at sea ; and the voice seemed the sweet, 
wild wail of that poor, weary wanderer, sighing for some 
starry island-shore — for the infinite brightness and beauty 
of that eternal haven 

“Where there shall be no more sea.” 

I had no time, however, for giving way to the sadness 
which was fast coming over me at the sound of that voice 
of melodious melancholy ; for, at this moment, almost ere 
the song had ceased, there was a light rustle in the hall, 
a quick footfall, the door opened, and Coralie sank into 
the arms outstretched to receive her. She was trembling 
with intense excitement. 

“ What is it ? who is it, Henri ? — the picture — quick ! 
quick ! tell me — ” She shivered, as her head sank on 
my bosom ; and her large, dilating eyes turned full on mine, 
as though they would grasp at once my tardy secret, and 
leave the tongue at fault forever. That pale, pale face, 
with its thin inflated nostril, and tremulous red lips — 
how sweet and sad it was ! and those eager, earnest, asking 
eyes, which never moved from mine all the while I was 
leading her to a seat, and gathering her more closely to 


MY ROSES. 


161 


my heart, as though nothing should ever part us more — 
how full of love and light and lustre ! 

“ Coralie, my heart’s darling, your intuitions were true ; 
you are not the niece of Madame Lesueur,” I said. 

“Oh ! Henri, can it be that you — tell me truth ? Ah ! 
blessed, blessed truth ! But — how I hoped for it — prayed 
for it! Not her niece, you say — oh, joy! — tell it me 
again and again.” 

“ No, my dearest, not one drop of kindred blood runs in 
her veins and yours ; you two are as widely separated as 
even you and I.” 

“Thank Heaven! oh, so joyfully — so gratefully!” she 
cried, and glad tears suffused her lustrous eyes, only to 
make them more brightly beautiful. “And now I am 
free ! Free ! — do you hear it, Henri ? Now I can go ; I’m 
free to work, to toil, to struggle, if need be, with poverty 
and loneliness ; but free — freed forever from temptation, 
ruin, and shame ! Thank Heaven ! thank the sweet Spirit- 
Mother ! But more ; let me hear more, mon ami. Tell 
me of my own mother, and of the picture. I ’m waiting, 
Henri ! ” 

Fondly I drew the young, excited creature to my side, 
and in low, murmured tones, 1 repeated her brief history, 
as I had gathered it, not an hour since, from the lips of 
Madame Lesueur. At first her beautiful face was raised 
to mine, drinking in, as it were, each word as it fell ; but 
gradually as I proceeded, the stately head drooped lower 
and lower, and when I concluded by acknowledging that 
we knew nothing whatever of the original of the picture, 
her hands, which I held locked in mine, had grown icy 
cold ; and, as with a low, heart - crushing moan, came 
the single word, “ Betrayed ! ” she fell forward upon my 
shoulder, motionless, to all appearance as lifeless as the 
clay. In an instant I had caught her up, but she fell back, 
/ 14 * 


162 


MY ROSES. 


white and rigid. She had quite fainted away. The long 
struggle in her heart, and the depth of mortification and 
wounded feeling at finding herself, at last, the child of 
penury and shame — without relatives, without a home, 
without a name, even — standing utterly alone, had over- 
come her. And I could not wonder at it. Poor child ! She 
was a delicately organized creature — like her mother, I 
presume, whom woes and wrong and wretchedness had 
driven almost (perhaps altogether) mad. But what should 
I do? Ring for assistance and call in the servants? 
Nay, that would never do ; the entire salon might pour in 
upon us. Send for Madame Lesueur? Not so; she was 
now in company with Berth el ; and what if he were to 
come also? I searched the tables for a water-pitcher — the 
etagere for a flask of perfume or spirits ; I could see no- 
thing of the kind. I laid my precious burden down upon 
the sofa, with her head as low as possible; then darting to 
the console, where stood a vase of rare exotics, I threw 
them out upon the marble, and, kneeling by the fair girl, 
bathed her face with the water, (not very fresh, it must be 
confessed — at least, not cold enough to be immediately ben- 
eficial,) and chafed her rigid hands, all the while praying 
that a nature so pure, so true, so innocent, so like a broken 
ray struck oflT from the divine beauty, might never be left 
to lose itself in the dark void of moral gloom which had so 
long surrounded it. How long I knelt, and wrought, and 
prayed thus, I know not. I was aroused by the sound of 
footsteps approaching along the hall — a man’s footsteps ; 
and instantly I sprang to the door, intending to turn the 
key, lest some one should intrude upon us. My hand was 
upon the lock — just one moment too late; the door 
opened ; I caught a glimpse of a man passing out, and 
Madame Lesueur entered. The man was Berthel, of 
course; and now, thank all my stars ! he was gone. Well 


MY ROSES. 


163 


disciplined as Madame Lesueur was by her strong self- 
command, her face was a study for the few brief moments 
in which she confronted me, after the first glance at Cor- 
al ie, apparently lifeless, on the sofa, and the vase over- 
turned upon the rich carpet. Anger, astonishment, and 
grief were all there. Her eyes blazed over me an instant, 
then she rushed forward, exclaiming, du del! ma 

mignonne ! ma Coralie I elle est morte ! ’’ 

“ No, madame ; she is not dead — only insensible. She 
could not bear to hear what you have told me to-night. 
Help me to recover her, quick ! What must be done?” 

“ Pauvre enfant!’’ sighed the woman, as she brushed by 
me, and left the room. At that moment Coralie opened 
her eyes, met mine, and closed them again, with an expres- 
sion of pain. It was but a minute when Madame Lesueur 
returned with restoratives, under the influence of which 
our pallid protegee soon recovered sufficiently to sit up, 
leaning back on the luxurious cushions. A glass of wine 
revived her, and Madame sat by her side holding her 
hands. 

“ Je suis outre de douleur — we ought not to have told 
her ; I knew it was too soon,” remarked the woman to me. 

“ Ah ! madame,” murmured the fair girl, in low, trem- 
ulous tones, as soon as she found voice to speak, “ did she 
leave no sign ; no word for me, her poor, lone baby ? ” 
We understood at once that it was of her mother she 
spoke. 

petite mignonne” was the reply. “Your mother 
had no time to talk ; she was a dying woman when she 
entered my door. Once, during that night — and she was 
almost gone then — I sat by her, crying over my dead baby 
— it had just died: she feebly held out her arms and 
said, ‘Give me the babe?’ I rose and placed it by her 
side. She strove to gather it up to her bosom, and then 


164 


MY ROSES. 


she looked at me, and said, with such a smile — helas ! it 
was sadder far than all the tears I shed ; ‘ We shall sleep 
well, your babe and I.’ And then she asked his name. 
* Etienne,’ I said. She pointed to you, her own babe — you 
lay asleep at the foot of the bed where she was lying — 
and said, ‘ Let me kiss her, please ? ’ I carried you to her ; 
she kissed you as you slept, and whispered — for she was 
going fast, poor lady: ‘Take her for me; her name is 
Coralie. I am going where he has already gone; he is 
waiting — I must — ’ and then she said no more, for she 
lost speech forever. Soon her wide-open blue eyes, the eyes 
of the dead, were staring at me, there in the night and 
the silence. I closed them down, and said, ‘ May the good 
God take her and my baby ! ’ for I believed in a good God 
then. I had not forgotten all my own poor mother’s teach- 
ings. I could not know whom she meant when she said, 
‘ I am going where he has gone.’ It might have been my 
dead boy, or it might have been the youth whose picture 
I afterward found on her bosom. And, on the whole, I 
have thought it most probable that this was the real state 
of the case — that the picture is that of her husband, your 
father, ma Coralie; and that he died, or was killed in some 
dreadful way ; and so she lost her senses partially, and 
wandered away, no one knew whither. This view is more 
probable from the fact that no inquiries were ever made 
concerning her, that I heard of. This is only conjecture, 
ma 'petite^ but I think it very probable that it may also be 
truth.” 

“Yes — yes, you are doubtless right, madame,” I ex- 
claimed. Especially did I desire that Coralie, for the sake 
of her own peace of mind, should take this view of the 
case. “ It is the only interpretation of the circumstances 
which seems at all plausible — the only one that seems 
reasonable,” I said, decidedly. Coralie, who was weeping 


MY ROSES. 


165 


bitterly, caught the hands of Madame Lesueur, and press- 
ing them to her heart, said, in broken tones : 

“ Ah ! Madame Elise, how much do I owe you ! Do 
not condemn me as ungrateful, when I say I must leave 
you. I shall die if I remain here. You must let me go : 
and oh ! you ought to be glad to send me away. In justice 
to the creature for whom you have done so much, you 
must do still more — give me freedom ! Tell me to go, and 
work for honest bread. Allow me still to love you — still 
to respect myself. When — when, dear Madame Elise, will 
you say to me, ‘ You are free ’ ^ ” 

I joined my entreaties to those of the lovely supplicant, 
urging the matter earnestly and eloquently — for my whole 
soul was in her cause ; but the Madame, though much agi- 
tated, shook her head. 

“Wait — wait awhile, mes enfans; in time it shall be 
as you desire. Where could you go, ma Coralief At 
present, you have no other home than mine. Be happy, 
and rest assured I will endeavor to find a better home for 
you.” 

“ She could go with me at once, madame,” I said, con- 
fidently. She smiled, in the old disagreeable way : “ TAaf 
would not be mending the matter, monsieur,” she replied, 
in a tone that seemed to say, “ She had a great deal better 
be with me, even here, than with you, anywhere.” “ But,” 
she added, “it grows late, and you must now retire. Monsieur 
d’Herbelot. Ma pauvre petite is weary — has had too much 
excitement already. The salon is deserted ; and Monsieur 
Berthel left some time ago — just as I came in and found 
you dead here, Coralie. Monsieur, if you will come to- 
morrow evening at eight o’clock, I shall be disengaged, and 
we will examine into our affairs more thoroughly : we will 
exchange opinions, and come to some definite understand- 
ing concerning the future of ma mignonne, who is so anx- 


166 


MY ROSES. 


ious to leave me. You will then, perhaps, be more ready, 
sir, to speak to me of your residence, family connections, 
etc. I will never — never allow this child to enter any 
family, save one that possesses enough of true * honor ’ to 
treat her honorably. \Yill eight o’clock, to-morrow even- 
ing, suit you, monsieur ? ” 

“ Admirably — any hour will suit me. I shall certainly 
await your pleasure, madame,” I replied. 

“ But, why wait until to-morrow evening ? ” suggested 
Coralie, timidly. “ At eleven in the morning is better — 
we rarely have visitors at that hour : and even Monsieur 
Berthel, who comes at any time almost, scarcely ever 
honors us so early in the day.” 

I caught, at once, at the suggestion — divining, readily, 
that she wished me to come when it was more than prob- 
able I should miss Berthel ; and, as that was also my earn- 
est desire, I said, “ Willingly : let it be at eleven — pro- 
vided, only, that madame will be disengaged at that hour.” 
She consented to this arrangement, and I rose to take my 
leave. I shook hands in a very amicable manner with the 
“ hostess ; ” and as I touched with my lips the fair child’s 
brow of Coralie, she whispered, “ Do not leave me long — 
oh ! not long : I shall watch for you at eleven : do not 
forget it.” 

Forget it ! ” when the full gaze of those large, luminous 
eyes, with the pathetic expression of appealing sadness and 
mournful hopefulness lingers until this very hour within 
my memory ? Pressing her little hand, in assurance that 
I would not fail, and in answer to her softly spoken “ good- 
by,” I turned, and left the apartment. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


IN THE TOILS. 


I labored on alone. The wind and dust 
And sun of the world beat blinding in my face ; 

And hopes, now for me, now against me, dragged 
My spirit onward; as some fallen balloon 
Which, whether caught by blossoming trees, or bare. 
Is torn alike. 


Attroua Leigh. 


Round her life the Demon’s power 
Like a serpent closely .twineth ; 

He breathes his breath upon her cheek — 
She shudders, yet she dare not shriek ; 
Virgin ! save her in that hour ! 

Oh ! his fiendish eye divineth 
That her heart is nigh to break ; 

O’er her forehead fair it shineth ; 

His the eye so like the snake. 


Old Legend. 



HE hall was quite deserted when I entered it: not even 


JL a servant in w'aiting occupied his post near the stair- 
way. Mechanically, I put my hand up to my vest-pocket 
for my watch, that I might see the hour as I passed under 
the lamp ; then, suddenly recollecting that it had changed 
owners, I hurried on through the vestibule, and down the 
steps — as I did so, placing my hand upon my breast to as- 
certain whether my little guardian, which Madame Lesueur 
had stigmatized as too noisy,” were safe. It was gone ! 
Fool that I was ! I had left it lying on the table, where I 
had been conversing with the hostess.” There had been 


167 


168 


MY KOSES. 


such a whirl in my brain during the whole of this event- 
ful evening, that if I had lost my head instead of my pistol, 
it could scarcely be wondered at. I would go back and 
secure it. I turned to do so, but just on the instant be- 
came aware of the presence of some person on the opposite 
side of the entrance, down upon the pavement, which I 
judged was some one about entering the house. Not wish- 
ing to meet any one there, I turned again, saying to my- 
self, “ I ’ll get it to-morrow,” then dashed forward through 
the only half-lighted streets, threading my way as best I 
might toward my home. When some two squares distant 
from the “ Maison des Bijoux,” just as I was passing round 
a street corner — I know not what caused the impulse — but 
I had a sense of something coming through the dark, be- 
hind me. It was an intuition, such as we sometimes feel 
in moments of real impending danger ; and also partook 
of that nameless fear we have ofttimes felt as children, 
when we go hurrying along a dark corridor, dreading 
gaunt, fiery eyes which we seem to know are glaring behind 
us ; almost feeling the hot breath of some horrible pursuer 
sweep against our blanching cheeks. It was a feeling 
and a dread something like these which prompted me to 
look back, as I turned that corner. I looked and saw — 
yes, it was true — I saw that same dark figure of a man 
following me at a rapid pace ! I hurried on. Fear lent 
me wings ; in the darkened spaces between the lamps, I 
almost flew. Once again I turned ; the figure was follow- 
ing still — nearing me, and coming on rapidly. As I hast- 
ened forward it came over me like a flash — I have no 
arms, and this fellow will most probably accost me with : 
“ Your money or your life ! ” I renewed my speed, and 
made a desperate dash for one of the principal thorough- 
fares, believing that I should find it less deserted and better 
lighted, consequently more safe for me. I gained it ; and, 


MY ROSES. 


169 


when I had gone some two or three squares, turned. I 
saw nothing of my pursuer. The street was tolerably well 
lighted, but there were but few persons passing, and those 
few seemed belated travellers like myself, hurrying home- 
ward. Coming into a shaded spot, where a lamp had gone 
out, I leaned up against the post to recover myself a little. 
I was trembling; my heart beat loudly in my bosom with 
rapid, heavy throbbings, and I was so greatly unnerved 
that it seemed to me, for a few moments, I could go no 
farther. I even thought of stopping in at some saloon or 
restaurant, (not being near any of the principal hotels,) 
and remaining there until day-dawn at least, when more 
people would be abroad, and the danger of robbery less- 
ened. All at once I broke into a laugh : of what did I 
expect to be robbed ? I, who had not one cent of money 
on my person ; no watch, no jewels, save a small diamond 
pin in my shirt-bosom (and which I wondered now that 
Madame Lesueur did not seize upon with the rest of my 
availables ”) — nothing at all, save the little switch of 
whalebone, called per compliment a “cane,” which I car- 
ried in my hand. “How very foolish!” I said to myself, 
now that I had time to think calmly. “ Of what am I 
afraid? Of some chance pedestrian, honest enough, no 
doubt, who was hurrying homeward like myself, whose 
path has now diverged from mine, and I see him no more? 
And this my womanish fears have manufactured into a 
desperado, demanding, in his cut-throat whisper, ‘Your 
money or your life.’ Verily, Monsieur d’Herbelot, thou 
art a cavalier of marvellous courage I How Sigismond 
would laugh at thy ‘ hair-breadth escapes,’ and astounding 
adventures!” I really .felt quite ashamed of my silly 
panic, as I again started forward on my homeward way. 
If this was the best I could do, I had better leave off af- 
fecting to protect Coralie, and remain indoors for the re- 
15 


170 


MY ROSES. 


mainder of my life, behind bolt and bar. I paused again 
a moment to fully decide where I was. Kecognizing the 
buildings, I saw that I was not very far from home, though 
out of the usual way somewhat. I had gone too far down 
town to be able, without retracing my steps, to take the 
back street by which I could gain the garden and the 
private stairway, where I felt assured that even now Ninon 
was awaiting me. Rather than retrace my steps, I would 
go on about three and a half blocks, and thus reach home 
by the front gateway. There was no alternative, for I 
would not go back; besides, what difference did it make? 
I could as easily go round the house to the back stairway 
as reach it by the garden. It was deep in the night — no 
one would discover me going in. I walked on rapidly, 
until only one street and half a square lay between me and 
my home-haven. I sprang lightly over the last crossing, 
turned a corner, and — great Heaven ! there — right there 
under the street-lamp, stood, as if awaiting me, that same 
dark figure which had dogged my footsteps from the 
“Maison des Bijoux!” It lifted the slouched hat a mo- 
ment as it mockingly uttered, “ Bon soir. Monsieur d’Her- 
belot!” and I met, with a shudder of recoil, the fierce, 
vindictive, passion-drunken eyes of — Jules Berth^l I 
That look of his — how it stung me! All the proud 
blood of the old D’Herbelots rushed into my face as he 
pronounced that noble name in such a mocking, taunting 
— nay, insulting tone. I could have ground him to powder 
under my heel like a venomous worm ! Confronting there 
in that lonely place, at that lonely hour, the man I detested 
for his vices — the man whom, perhaps, I had good reason 
to fear for his vindictive nature and unscrupulous wicked- 
ness — the man whom I knew to be my bitter enemy — 
it was strange that no feeling of fear came over me. 
All my former childish tremors were gone: I knew not 


MY EOSES. 


171 


whither. I saw my enemy — measured his strength and 
my own — and though my hands grew numb, though my 
heart throbbed thick and fast, it was not with fear. It 
was no longer a haunting dread of that uncertain something 
behind me. I had my enemy where I could look him in 
the eyes, and indignation was the prevailing feeling in my 
heart — not fear. In the brief space in which I stood 
there, face to face with my foe, I could not but note the 
great change which had written itself deeply upon him 
since last I saw him at my father’s house. I thought of 
what Ninon had remarked, “ But then he is so different 
now.” He was but the wreck of what he had been one 
short year ago. During that time he had gloried in the 
title of a “ fast youth ; ” and verily he had gone down the 
broad road at a rapid pace. A glance revealed to me the 
vice-worn victim of his uncontrolled passions — drink and 
dissipation were fast bringing down upon him the last of 
their dread trio — Death. At present, he was “ flown with 
wine ; ” or, more probably, with some of the more potent 
poisons which are dealt out from the thousand “ saloons ” 
and “ bars ” of the Crescent City — nay, every American 
city; more’s the pity — more’s the shame! As I have 
said, I took in all this at a glance; it was plain enough 
under the falling lamplight ; and ere the hot flush of in- 
dignation had dimmed upon my cheek, with the haughty 
prompting of the old imperious blood which raged along 
my young veins I exclaimed, Out of my way, sirrah ; 
stand aside — let a gentleman pass I ” 

“ A gentleman ! ha ! ha ! ha! — a gentleman I ” It was not 
much ; that is to say, the words were only such as any 
half- drunken wretch might have used tauntingly to a 
known superior; but it was the tone that startled me. 
There was that in the accent of this little sentence as it was 
hissed upon my ear, which, like the warning rattle of the 


172 


MY ROSES. 


roused snake, instantly sent the hot blood curdling back 
about my heart. Then, peering straight into my face with 
a maudlin leer, as loathsome as it was malicious — and 
which made my very fingers ache and tingle in their im- 
patience to smite out those insolent eyes — he continued, 
“ But first, young gentleman^ before you are permitted to 
pass on, I have a little ‘ confidence ’ for your private ear. 
You know me, I suppose.” 

“ I have no desire to know you. Stand out of my way, 
sir, and allow me to pass ; or I shall summon those who 
will force you to it.” 

“Not know me? You don’t trouble yourself to ‘hold 
fast the truth,’ good Monsieur d’Herbelot. You lie with a 
pretty good grace — a grace which bespeaks an adept in 
the art. Don’t know me, eh? — devilish fine joke that — 
don’t know me f ” and he drew himself up, thrust his pas- 
.sion-harrowed face close to mine, and hissed — But I 
know you ! ” 

I started back a pace or two — then recovering myself 
instantly, I retorted, “False as foul! You know me? I 
cannot stand here parleying with a poor, drunken, fallen 
creature. I pity you — but, stand back, and let me pass ; 
or as I said, I will — ” 

“ No ! ” he broke in — “ no, you won’t call in the good 
police. Better not — better not; and you know it, too. 
I ’m a ‘ poor, fallen creature,’ am I ? Perhaps not more so 
than yourself — not so much, possibly — seeing I did n’t 
have so far to fall. ‘ Fallen,’ am I ? But when a young 
lady — lady, mind you ! — beautiful, accomplished, high in 
fashion, rich, and of noble blood, and in the absence of 
her affianced husband, frequents, at such hours as this, 
an establishment like the ‘ Maison des Bijoux ’ — we may 
well cry out in saintly horror, ‘ Ah ! what a falling off 
was there ! ’ And you have done this, mademoiselle. I 


MY ROSES. 


173 


know you well ; I have cause to remember you ; you are 
the only woman I have ever really loved — you are my 
soul-slayer, the haughty heiress, Henriette de Hauterive ! 
Aha ! Je vous y prends ! 

Had the firm earth opened at my feet, I could scarce 
have been more astounded. Like a thunderbolt his words 
came crushing in upon my senses, with a stunning, stupe- 
fying force. For a moment, I felt as if buried in an ava- 
lanche of ice ; but pride and anger quickly scourged me 
back to life again ; and I dropped out from firm lips, 
haughtily and slowly, the few words, “You have strangely 
mistaken the person, sir ; I have the honor not to under- 
stand you.’’ 

“ Then I shall have the profound pleasure of making 
myself intelligible, mademoiselle, or monsieur — which 
you choose. You will greatly oblige me by glancing at 
this trifle ; ” and up into the lamplight he held my watchj 
with its diamond setting and long, peculiar, sharp-linked 
chain ! “ This,” he continued — almost calmly now, for the 

effect of his potations seemed wearing off* — “ this, I say, 
was left by you in the hands of the mistress of that house 
this very night ; and behold ! ” He touched the back 
spring — the case ffew open, and there upon the inside 
shone, as in letters of fire, my name — Henriette de 
Hauterive, New Orleans^ La., June Is^, 1850. 

Oh ! fool ! fool, and blind ! to have forgotten that glit- 
tering betrayer ! I stood as one blasted by the lightning- 
stroke ; and he went on : 

There is the proof, mademoiselle — proof, dark and 
damning. Confess now, my pretty pleasure-bird, that you 
are in the toils. I ’ve been watching you ; and not in vain, 
as this proves. Had n’t you as well come to terms with 
me ? Proud beauty — and so you scorned me, only to throw 
yourself into the vortex of a life like that — a life — ” 
15 * 


174 


MY ROSES. 


“Stop there! just there!” I cried, white with passion — 
choking with rage and scorn; for his vile insinuations 
stung me well-nigh to madness. “ Stop there — once for 
all. Deep villain that you are, Berth^l, and despicable as 
deep, you know my purpose in going to that house was one 
of which Honor’s self could never, never be ashamed — one 
that Virtue’s self would not disown.” 

“ Ah ! and is it so ? ” he sneered. “ Then all I have to 
say, is that Mesdames Honor and Virtue are much easier 
moralists than even I had given them credit for. Perhaps 
you ’re right, mademoiselle ; for myself, I don’t pretend to 
know a great deal about those mysterious females whom 
you call Virtue and Honor. And — if the naked truth 
must be confessed — your actions rather report that yowr 
acquaintance with them is slight, also. A young woman 
who visits the ‘ Maison des Bijoux ’ at so late an hour as 
you seem to choose ; who goes in disguise ; who appears to 
appreciate the old proverb, ‘When the cat is away the 
mice will play,’ (beg your pardon — no offence to M. Sau- 
vollee ;) and who can leave with the honorable ‘hostess’ 
several hundred dollars and a jewelled watch as ‘ hush- 
money ’ — why — why, you will observe, the inference is 
quite plain, my vestal votaress. Of course, your purpose 
was an ‘ honorable ’ one ; but, it looks — otherwise ; don’t 
it, my bird of Paradise ? Y our mission ‘ honorable ’ ? 
That is taken for granted — by myself. But, look at who 
you are, and where you stand at this moment, and grant 
at least that — c^est un phenom^ne que de vous voir id. I, 
who love you, am able to comprehend this miracle ; but 
the world — ” 

Forgetting myself, in my mad rage, I here raised the 
little switch cane to strike him in the face : his tone of in- 
sulting familiarity carried me beyond all bounds. Oh ! (I 
thought,) oh ! for that little pistol I so carelessly left be- 


MY ROSES. 


175 


hind — that I might send a death-messenger through his 
coward heart ! ” He caught the cane as it descended, 
wrenching it from my hand in the act of striking ; but, in 
a moment more, smiled approvingly, bowed, and, with mock 
courtesy, presenting it again, said : 

^‘Excusez moi: you were about to drop your pretty play- 
thing in the — wrong place ! I have the honor to regain it 
for you. I am penetrated with admiration powr votre presence 
d’ esprit But, one word of advice. When you feel disposed 
to play the gentleman, something of this sort would be bet- 
ter — I advise you to patronize an institution of this kind;” 
and here he drew from his bosom the bright, keen bowie- 
blade which Madame Lesueur had worn earlier in the 
evening. 

I was sure it was the same — the chain was still attached 
to the sheath. My heart seemed to fail me — my soul to 
grow sick. Could it be that I was the victim of a con- 
spiracy? Had she given him that knife on purpose? Ah^ 
Dieu ! how many mistakes I had committed ! Sigismond, 
Sigismond ! if you could see me now ! What a rash, head- 
long course I had pursued — rushing blindfold into the 
toils which were now netted round me. Great God of 
purity and truth, of justice and mercy, whither shall I fly 
for help? To Thee! to Thee! And in my agonized ex- 
tremity, my very soul went forth upon that smothered cry, 
“ God in heaven, help me ! ” 

“ Why, of course,” uttered my tormentor, with a sinister 
sneer ; “ now is the time to call Him in ! If He can’t 
‘ help ’ you, it is not probable that anybody will. Those 
blind bats — the good-natured police — can’t be made our 
confidants ; the news of our little private affaire de guerre^ 
or de cceury (as you choose,) would soon fly into the jour- 
nals —consequently, throughout the country, as you are 
aware. Think of it, mademoiselle! ‘Astonishing devel- 


176 


MY ROSES. 


opments in high life!’ What a godsend to the city re- 
porters 1 Take my advice, and don’t give them an oppor- 
tunity to use their eloquent pens at your expense. Tenez 
vous en rep9s, my beautiful peine du cceur ! ” 

It would be impossible for one to express in words the 
cool malignity, the insolent familiarity and caustic irony 
with which he said this ; and his glowing eyes, which dwelt 
upon my face as if riveted there, were intolerable. There 
was a something in them to which no words that I can use 
will give expression ; a something that maddened me be- 
yond all else. Surely, as I have a soul to be saved, had it 
been possible, I must have killed him there, even had the 
penalty been the loss of that soul for evermore I 

But,” he resumed, after a brief pause, and moving 
rather from the front, (for he had been opposing my way 
all this time,) “ let us to business. Je ne suis pas venu ici 
pour enfiler des perles; and, as I before mentioned, we must 
come to terms, my pleasure-bird. Of course I have not 
sought your company at this time for nothing; of course I 
would not detain a lady thus in the open streets, at this 
hour of night, merely to assure her that I had the honor 
of knowing who she was, and what place of pious amuse- 
ment she had been attending this summer Sunday evening. 
Not at all ; there is still too much of the preux chevalier 
about me for that. Therefore I must explain. Mademoi- 
selle, entre nous, you are now aware of the position you oc- 
cupy — a very honorable one, no doubt. You see the net in 
which you have (at your own sweet will) enveloped your- 
self; and you cannot blame me, if I, knowing your position 
also, should be emboldened to take advantage of it. You 
may remember what passed between us at our last stormy 
meeting, in your father’s house; and, believe me, I have not 
forgotten it. We meet to-night on very different ground. 
Then you were the proud beauty, the haughty heiress, the 


MY ROSES. 


177 


spoiled child of pride and fashion, and I was at your feet; 
now — you are — I ’ll not say what, at present. Suffice it to 
say, you are in my power. One word, one breath of mine, and 
your fair reputation is blackened forever ; your social posi- 
tion lost ; your name a by-word on the streets ; and your 
affianced lover — then what of him? Reflect. To such as 
you, a ‘ character ’ is une chose de prix. The world regards 
you as being possessed of one. Shall I lever le masque ^ 
and reveal how you stand ? Raillerie apart, I trust you 
now appreciate my words, when I tell you that ‘ the tide 
has turned ’ in my favor. Do you see where you stand, 
pretty one ? Is it not 


‘ on slippery rocks 

Where fiery billows roll below — ’ 

as those very respectable parsons say, when dealing so lib- 
erally in Pandemonium pyrotechnics that an honest sinner 
like myself is led to wonder how they keep up the weekly 
supply ? Again, I ask, do you see where you stand — ma 
belle sorciere f ” 

“Yes, I see it — I stand here parleying with the foul 
Fiend himself — more shame to me ! ” and at the word I 
broke past him and fled forward along the pave toward my 
home. It was not far: oh! Heaven aid me to reach it — to 
gain the safe haven of my home once more! A deep, 
grating curse followed me. On I fled, but my pitiless pur- 
suer’s footfalls echoed closely on my flying steps. Every 
instant I seemed to feel his heavy hand upon my shoulder, 
as though he would fell me to the earth. A few moments, 
and I had bounded over the second and last cross alley- 
way ; my feet touched the broad pavement that ran in front 
of the yard before my own dwelling ; I saw the iron gate 
with its lion-heads and ornamental lamp in front, and felt 
that I had gained it. Alas for me ! my good housekeeper. 


178 


MY ROSES. 


Mrs. Mcllvaine, proved my bane. According to her orders, 
(which were of the Medo-Persian species,) Pierre every 
evening sprinkled that dusty pavement liberally, and the 
slippery flagstones now rendered my footing very uncertain. 
Twice I slipped, caught myself, and sprang forward again ; 
but just as I was within half a dozen paces of the gate, 
already stretching out* my hand to grasp and swing it 
open, my boot, with its awkward heel, (ladies were not 
accustomed to heels at that time,) turned upon the 
treacherous side-walk, and I fell forward, only saving my- 
self from severe injury by falling upon the outstretched 
arm by which I had hoped to grasp the desired goal. I 
rose instantly, half-stunned — but just that moment too late; 
for there, between me and the gateway — between me and 
my home, stood my relentless torturer ; who, as I rose, held 
out his hand, as if to aid me, and said, with a mocking 
smile, “Shall I have the honor to assist you — belle 
deesse f I warned you that you stood on ‘ slippery rocks * 
— you disregarded my admonition, and you have fallen. I 
trust you will perceive ‘ the moral ’ of the accident, and — 
beware, for the future 


CHAPTER XIV. 


ion 


AT BAY. 


Thou laugh’st, tormentor — what? thou ’It brand my name? 
1)0 — do — in vain — he’ll not believe my shame — 

He knows me true — that nought beneath God’s sky 
Could tempt or change me .... 


Hold ! 


Tempt not my rage — by Heaven not half so bold 
The puny bird that dares with teasing hum 
Within the crocodile’s stretched jaws to come ! 

Thou ’It fly ? as easily may reptiles run 
The gaunt snake once has fixed his eyes upon; 

As easily, when caught, the prey may be 
Plucked from his loving folds — as thou from me ! 


The Veiled Prophet. 



IHE lamp just opposite my own gateway — my home 


-L lamp, now growing somewhat dim as the night waned 
on — shone softly over that dark face before me; the brow 
ploughed by evil thoughts, the blanched and sunken 
cheeks, the lips writhing and quivering in the vain effort 
to give expression to all the powerful passions that were 
seething in the hot heart below, and the deep, cavernous 
eyes, ‘‘set on fire of hell.” One slender hand, white and 
delicate as a woman’s, held my watch, the brilliant sparkles 
flashing out ever and anon in the lamplight, while the 
chain was twisted round his fingers, and the other hand 
lay upon the fastening of the gate. My fall had lost to me 
the brief space in which I might have passed that barrier 


179 


180 


MY ROSES. 


and waved a triumphant farewell to my persecutor from 
the safe haven of the home side ; but now a double barrier 
interposed, and escape, for the time, was out of the ques- 
tion. I felt that I was foiled : still, the very s.ight of home 
gave me courage. Late as it was, I knew that Ninette was 
even now on the alert, somewhere about the place, waiting 
for my return ; and if matters outside the gate were such 
as to justify a call, my voice could be heard at the house, 
and Ninon would speedily answer. Looking boldly up 
into the dark face that was moi'e boldly glooming down 
upon mine, I said, with all the firmness I could command, 
“ Once more, sir, I ask you to stand aside and allow me to 
pass. This is my home ; the hour is late ; why should you 
detain me thus ? ” 

Why, indeed ? Simply because it is my good pleasure 
to do so. You are not loquacious, but I like to talk to 
you, my beautiful an^e dechu. I have now the happiness 
to address you de vive voix: when have I enjoyed that 
pleasure before ? when shall I again ? This is my oppor- 
tunity ; therefore I ‘ detain you thus.’ I hold, that when 
a man can have the society of a charming woman, he is a 
fool if he prefers his own solitary meditations ; and upon 
that same principle I ‘detain you,’ and shall continue to 
do so, if necessary d force de hr as. True, the hour is late. 
It is time, certainly, that all ‘ fair and honorable ’ ladies 
should be safely housed at home ; but, when we take to 
masquerading, we must not shiver at the midnight air, or 
expect etre sujet au coup de cloche^ you know.” His words 
fell slowly, like iceflakes ; but I knew they came from a 
heart which was boiling with rage at my attempt to escape 
him. 

“ Unless you allow me to pass that gate, sir, I shall be 
obliged to call for assistance from the house,” I said. 

“ I don’t know that I should at all object to that,” he 


MY ROSES. 


181 


answered, in his mocking tones. “ Do, if yon please. We 
shall have a grand tableau vivant. Shrieks heard in the 
dead of night — maid and man, cook and coachman rush 
out ; young mistress discovered in the streets in masculine 
attire ; mon p^re demands explanations ; ‘ startling devel- 
opments,^ (or, devil-up-ments — excuse the pun, fair lady,) 

— ah! it would be charming — nouvelle — unique! I in- 
sist that you get up something of the kind immediately, 
really. For once, oblige me, belle ange^ 

He was becoming sobered ; and it is utterly beyond me 
to describe the combination of satanic coolness and savage 
force with which these words were spoken. Frost and fire 
they were — pointed and energized by the fierce animus 
within. I saw there was no sense in “ fighting fate ” at 
present : I would be as cool (apparently) as my tormentor 
feigned to be. Come what would, I was almost at home ; 
and though I could not see the lights in my own room, for 
the closed curtains and shutters, I knew that the lights 
were there. I stepped back, leaned up against the iron 
column which supported the lamp, folded my arms so as to 
support the one upon which I had fallen, (for it was pain- 
ing me severely,) and, with a calm eye, looked my mock- 
ing enemy steadily in the face. 

“Ha! ha!’’ he laughed, low and bitterly; “I like that 

— I do, by Juno ! Now that you see you are hemmed in, 
that you are foiled, that you can’t escape me — you throw 
yourself back en grande tenue, as if to say, *Now fire away 
and do your d — dest!’ Pardon me, I never swear in the 
presence of ladies : it ’s apt to shock their sensibilities. 
Ah ! mademoiselle, you don’t imagine how you make me 
love you, with that haughty, hands-off and down-to-the- 
devil way you have — it ’s supremely captivating. Would 
become you much better, however, in your own proper 
costume. Curse that infernal toggery ! How can a reason- 

16 


182 


MY ROSES. 


able fellow make love to anything in the shape of a man f 
When a sensible man is inclined /ciire V amour, he inevitably 
prefers the demoiselles. N’est ce pas, monsieur f” After 
a short pause, during which he glowered down upon me as 
if to fathom the deeps of my indignation and impatience, 
but failed, he continued : “ By that slight smile of con- 
tempt, I perceive you think I am trifling : well, if you will 
only condescend to say so, we ^11 turn to some graver subject. 
Shall we, ma Mre f It shall be precisely as you say.” 

I made no reply, but watched him steadily : I was watch- 
ing until he should, perhaps, forget to hold the gate against 
me. 

^^Morhleu!” he exclaimed- again. “Wish I hadn’t 
praised you so much for the ‘grand, gloomy, and peculiar’ 
manner in which you do the statuesque. A woman loves 
the free use of her tongue, but she loves admiration better. 
It’s not that she loves ‘Caesar less, but Borne more;’ you 
understand. You are a Zenobia in primrose kids and white 
vest, as I ’ve a soul to be eternally d — d — I should say, dis- 
quieted ! DonH look so, queen of hearts ! you absolutely 
consume me ! ” 

If he intended, as I believed, to provoke me into some 
reply, he was disappointed. I watched him narrowly, but 
I had no intention of again committing myself by speak- 
ing to him. After a while, he resumed, ironically : “ I see 
that you are not disposed to oblige me — how unkind of 
you ! That silence wounds me deeply — cela me tient a 
cceur. But, if you are determined not to speak, you can’t 
help listening ; and I wish you to give me your undivided 
attention. • I pray you to be sur le qui vive. Possibly, I 
have tormented you sufficiently. Ah ! don’t smile in that 
contemptuous way : I know I have vexed and angered 
you. Such was my intention. This was all trifling — let 
it pass. I am in earnest now — my very soul (if I have 


MY ROSES. 


183 


one) is in what I am about to say to you. Econtez! First 
of all, I am your rejected lover — I do not mince matters, 
you see. Secondl)'^, I love you still — please to remember 
that. I love you wholly ; perhaps, solely. This love, which 
w^as such a cross to you, doubtless you have deemed it long 
since buried deep dans le fieuve d’ Ouhli. No ! it is still 
i\iQi feu d’ enfer which consumes me! Your beauty; your 
proud, free spirit; your noble name; your princely fortune 
— I love them all ; and they constitute — yourself. Ban- 
ished from your presence, the keen eyes of jealous passion 
have watched you from afar. During the past year, you 
have appeared in public but seldom that I have not seen 
you. At the Opera, on the promenade — even in the 
church, at times, I have been near you. Though you 
knew it not, I saw you upon your first visit to the house 
our fellows call the ‘Maison des Bijoux;’ you were in 
company with the man who is said to be your affianced 
husband. What brought you to that place I could not 
then divine. I have since learned, by using my own eyes 
and those of servants — eyes proverbially keen, as you are 
aware — that some romantic fancy, which you had taken 
to pretty Coralie Lesueur, led you there. Let your pur- 
pose be what it might, I, at once, acquitted you of all 
thought of wrong. I was satisfied that you had a purpose, 
and a good one, or M. Sauvoll^e would not have brought 
you there. Again, I saw you with Coralie Lesueur, in the 
old Place d’Armes. You may think it strange that I 
should have penetrated your disguise at once — that I 
should know you d^un premier coup d’oeil. Not at all 
strange : * Love is blind,’ they say ; but, I tell you. Love 
has the eye of an eagle — shadow or sunlight, it is one to 
him. Love would lead me to Henriette de Hauterive 
under any maskings she might choose to wear. When I 
saw you making love to Coralie, in the shades of the old 


184 


MY ROSES. 


Plaza, (for I did see you — no matter how,) I thought I 
divined your purpose : you had become interested in the 
girl, (and she is interesting, I confess,) and probably, in 
the guise of a young lover, sought to woo and win her 
away from her present associations. Highly romantic 
idea! and, if it could be carried out, one might call it 
reasonable also. But — I should not wish to be in your 
position when the hour comes for you to lift your mask. 
To proceed : I knew of Monsieur Sauvoll^e’s departure for 
the country — know very nearly the time set for his return ; 
and I supposed you would appear no more in your new 
role until he came — he who, it seems, is your shadow. I 
was therefore not prepared to find you to-night at the house 
of Lesueur. Not knowing what to do with myself until 
y OUT fiance’s return — for the weather is as hot as if stirred 
up by the lord of fire and brimstone himself — I consented 
to take a run up to the Wells, with Mowbray, for a few 
days — if I could raise ‘ the wherewithal.’ Accordingly, I 
took him round to see that regal belle Marguerite, while I 
called on Lesueur for money. I ’ve oppressed that woman, 
I expect ; she melts moneys in that extravagant house she 
keeps, as if it were a crucible ; but, when a fellow is liter- 
ally ‘played out,’ and the ‘tiger’ has his fist for many 
thousands more than he is worth, what ’s to be done ? 
Why, get it honorably, if you can ; but, if not — get it. 
And so, when I’m ‘hard up ’ — which happens oftener than 
pleases me — money I must have, if I win it d la pointe de 
I'epee. Without it, how am I to live? Enseignez-moi le 
chemin, s’il vous plait. There is no way now open to me, 
save to put the screws upon Lady Lesueur : I ’m obliged 
to do it in self-defence. Luckily, I ’ve found out what 
spring to touch, when I want the indispensable, in that 
quarter. Maybe you would like to know what it is ? I 
have only to press it firmly, when, presto I from some secret 


MY ROSES. 


185 


reservoir or other, up comes ‘the needful/ Can’t you 
signify that you would be pleased to know ? ” He glow- 
ered down upon me as I stood in stolid silence. 

“ Parlez ! ” he burst out, with impatient energy ; “ can’t 
you speak ? Say it ’s hot, or cold — say — anything at all 

— but say something ! Speak ! if only par moquerie ! 
Que pretendez-vous f ” Still I stood watching him with 
haughty, half-contemptuous patience. 

“You won’t talk?” he resumed, and his eye gleamed 
with an angry fire ; “ well, I must talk myself, then. The 
money-spring I spoke of is — the pretty Coralie ! ” I 
started — visibly : to have saved my life, I think, I could 
not have helped it. I struggled hard to appear utterly in- 
difierent — to keep up an unbroken, outward calm; but he 
read agitation in my telltale face, and those glittering, 
eager eyes seemed to gloat over the knowledge that he had 
moved me at last. 

“ Mille pardons ! ” he said, with his mocking, sinister 
smile ; “ I did not mean to disturb your equanimity, fair 
montagne de glace; I am merely relating my experiences 

— desi tout. Don’t agitate yourself, I entreat. I only 
meant to say that I have found it convenient to pretend a 
terrific grand passion for the pretty niece — to insist upon 
possessing beauty instead of booty — then the golden 
shower is sure to come. Lesueur would never pay one 
stiver of my dues if I did n’t manage her in some such 
way. No use to sell her up — all that she has wouldn’t 
pay her indebtedness, and I don’t want that property back 
on my hands. What I want is ready money. So I know 
how to manage the Madame, cunning as she is. She has 
one especial weak point, and I have taken advantage of it. 
I amuse myself swearing by all the hot-hearted dieux 
d^enfer that I will have her pet, quoi qu’il arrive; and then 
to see how she struggles for ‘ the wherewithal ’ to meet my 


186 


MY ROSES. 


demands! I verily believe she would cut off her own 
fingers to get the diamonds thereon for me, (if they were 
real, and if she had no other way in which to get up the 
all-important circulating medium,) rather than give me 
the little plaything I don’t want at all ! It is really 
almost too absurd to laugh at ! Coralie, bah ! The girl is 
well enough, but not my style. Cette femme fait Men la 
reservee^ and I hate prudes. She is milk and water. 
Marguerite, now, is eau de we, with a fair sprinkling of the 
devil to spice it off withal. I admire women of that vol- 
canic type — hence my admiration for you^ my charming 
friend! But my little ruse, though so absurd in itself, 
always ‘scared up’ the money; ’t was a good joke — a 
deuced fine joke; so clever and successful that I am tempted 
to believe it was suggested to me by the cunning old 
Sorcerer himself — if indeed there be such a clever per- 
sonage.” 

“ You may rest assured as to the author of the sugges- 
tion — possibly, however, you could become his teacher,” I 
broke in, forgetting myself in my utter loathing of the 
man’s mean and cowardly villany.” 

“Aha! and so you can speak!” he cried, with a gleam 
of satisfaction in his wild eyes. He exulted in having 
wrung a few words from my lips; and could not forbear to 
taunt me in return. “I ’m glad you have spoken at last,” 
he added; “although ce que vous dites n’ pas le sens com- 
mun : I feared I was on the point of discovering that rara 
avis, a silent woman — a notoriety which I should never 
be able to sustain with becoming dignity. Let us get to 
business. If you go on interrupting me in this unceremo- 
nious manner, mademoiselle, I shall never come to the 
cr^me de la crime of my story.” 

I was growing extremely weary of this running fire of 
taunts and trifling ; my arm ached from the wrist to the 


MY ROSES. 


187 


shoulder, and I felt the night growing deeper as the lamp 
above me burned dimmer. However, I longed to hear all 
he had to say : it was to my interest to discover, if possi- 
ble, whether there was any collusion between him and 
Madame Lesueur; besides, I could not get away — the gate 
was still closely guarded. I therefore stood up stiffly iu 
my position — again in determined silence. Meanwhile, my 
dark-browed enemy went on : “ As I said before, I did not 
dream of you being in the ‘ Maison ’ to-night, when I went 
there to ‘ scare up ’ some of the can’t-do-without-able. I 
roused up the old lady so fiercely that I knew, if I would 
wait awhile, she would conjure up the gold from somewhere; 
and I meant to have it if she brought it red hot from 
h — Hades. I went into the salon, for a change. 
Wearying of this at length, for la helle Marguerite was 
splendidly spiteful to me, I rose to go. Mowbray con- 
cluded to go with me ; but just as we came out, we were 
met in the hall by the Lesueur, who I presume had been 
waiting for me. At all events, there she was, and she 
wished to speak with me a moment — privately, of course. 

I sent off Mowbray, telling him I would meet him at the 
St. Charles shortly, and went with Madame into her ‘sanc- 
tum sanctorum.’ It was all right — a round six hundred, 
and this pretty trifle, awaited my pleasure. I tried my 
best to get out of the mistress where the very acceptable 
came from; but no — the cunning old Sphynx was as 
close-mouthed as her granite namesake among the pyramids. 
A young gentleman had just presented it to her — (for ‘a 
consideration’ of course, ' though she wouldn’t mention, 
what) I wormed it out at last, indirectly, that said ‘young 
gentleman ’ was still in the house. A thought struck me : 
it was more than probable that a young lark who could 
afford to sport a trinket like this,” (here he held up my 
watch,) “would be worth the plucking, if ‘a friend’ could 


188 


MY EOSES. 


get him into a billiard saloon. I determined at once to 
watch for him, and, if possible, to make his distinguished 
acquaintance. After some little irrelevant conversation, I 
bade the amiable ‘ hostess ’ hon soir, (first borrowing her 
pretty little ‘ tooth-pick ’ here; for, as I told her, some fool 
might take a fancy to my plunder before I reached the 
hotel;) and I left her, with a thousand dt)llars newly 
credited on my bonds. Just under the lamp in the hall, I 
took a fancy to see the hour : pausing, I drew out my new 
chronometer — examined it a little, calculating how much 
it would bring, some ‘ rainy day,’ at that infernal, rascally 
old Jew’s, who does business for me when I ’m ‘ hard up ; ’ 
and somehow I touched the spring at the back; it flew 
open — the accommodating little thing! — and there, what 
did I see? ‘Henriette de Hauterive, New Orleans^ La., 
June \st, 1850.’ Feux Jenfer! how it scorched and 
blinded me! It burst upon me like the shock of forty 
electrical machines — it was a shock that might galvanize 
a dead man to life ! It took my breath away for full two 
minutes. My suspicions all correct : you there in the 
house at that very moment — and alone! Fortune, for 
once, was playing directly into my hand. My course was 
decided upon- in a moment: while I had tbe advantage I 
meant to keep it. I awaited your exit, at the door — fol- 
lowed you. Fearing to lose you in the Rue Royale, I took 
another way, and awaited you at the last crossing yonder 
— a spot I knew you would be compelled to pass before 
reaching home. And I found you. Comprenez-vous, mon 
coup de desespoir f ” 

Yes ; I began fully to comprehend him now, to my cost. 
Here he paused a moment in his narration, glared down 
upon me, drawing a little closer, edging from the gate toward 
me. I stood perfectly still, watching and biding my time. 

“ And now, perhaps, you are wondering, my fair eceur 


MY ROSES. 


189 


de marbre, why I have watched you thus, followed you — 
‘ persecuted you,’ you will call it. Mort eternelle ! it is be- 
cause I love you still ! What has drawn me on, day after 
day? You, my glorious crU de serpent — you! Wrong? 
Very well, the wrong has been done simply pour V amour 
de vous. Listen to me. For myself, I do not doubt your 
motive in visiting Lesueur’s house ; that it was good, I 
truly believe. I have talked to you otherwise to-night. 
That was to show you what a marvellous story might be 
made out of your rather imprudent escapade, and how this 
good, pleasant, reputable world would delight in convicting 
you of — ^ all evilj and that continually.’ It was to show 
you, too, that you are wholly in my power. I have but to 
breathe this tale of midnight adventures, and you are 
ruined — ruined past all redemption. But — I love you 

— belle d^esse. My faith in your purity and nobleness is 
unshaken ; and even we, the most profligate of men, (as I 
acknowledge myself to be), even we know how to love, to 
honor, to adore a truly good woman” Mentally, I took 
the liberty of very decidedly doubting this assertion ; but 
I said nothing whatever — and he went on : “ In other days 
you thought I sought you for your fortune alone ; there you 
did me a partial injustice. That your wealth had charms 
for me, I will not deny ; money has attraction for all men, 
and if I am not proof against its fascinations, I will not lie 
to hide it. I acknowledge that your ample estate, your 
high social position, your family influence, your glowing, 
burning beauty, all — all have their charms for me. For 
‘all in all,’ I love you madly — don’t interrupt me with 
that gesture of proud impatience, for you must and you 
shall hear me ! Once despised, rejected, abhorred perhaps 

— I love you now to madness ; and it is the single purpose 
of my life to call you mine. And more, I hold the power 
that makes you mine! ” 


190 


MY ROSES. 


I confess that my heart for a moment stopped its throb- 
bings — that my eyes dazed and my limbs shook, as I gazed 
upon the man before me. The background, so dark, threw 
out into strong relief that pallid, defiant face, lit up by 
flashes of flickering lamplight. Over all those carved 
features there lay a deathly calm, hiding a lava-fire ; the 
lips pale and passionate, the eyes fierce, intensely luminous, 
and absolutely terrible to me in their fixed, serpent-like 
expression, mingled with the loathsome love he dared so 
boldly to avow. Mentally, I was shaken with impatience, 
rage, and terror, and, for the second time that night, felt 
that I could have killed him without compunction. As I 
stood there still, rigid, breathless, almost ready to fall, yet 
• by the mighty eflTort of an indomitable will maintaining a 
forced calm and a steady position, he sprang to my side, 
confronting me with those flaming, eager, and hungry eyes. 

“ And now,” he uttered hoarsely, and in the deep tones 
of controlled and concentered passion, “now comes the 
triumphant moment when I exercise that power. I hold 
you in my hand, Henriette de Hauterive ; it is mine to 
crush or caress you at my will. Beware the former ; death 
itself were better — far better for such as you. Ecoutez 
vousf Be mine — my wife; resign to me that glorious 
beauty; lay at my feet your hoarded gold; bend to my 
bidding that imperious will ; bow to my call that proud 
spirit; in short, be mine — all mine, and this dread secret 
goes down to the grave in silence. Refuse — reject me 
now, as once you did, and the world feeds like a famished 
vampyre upon your stainless fame. ‘ None so low,’ so vile, 
as to ‘do you reverence’ then. It is for this — for this 
alone, that I have watched and waited ; and now my tri- 
umph is complete ; my love and my revenge alike are on 
the eve of that day when I shall write against them, ‘Sated 
to the full!’ Voild! I hold in my hand the glittering 


MY ROSES. 


191 


proof of your — degradation. How it will flash back its 
answers upon a questioning world — a world that with gusto 
licks up the blood of many a fair reputation — that laps it 
like thirsty blood-hounds ! Reflect ere you decide ; I 
chain down my impatience to give you time.” 

He bent his head, looking out at me from under sable 
brows; his eyes glowing and scintillating like those of 
some crouching tiger, ready to spring upon his defenceless 
prey, the whole face kindling and quivering as with in- 
tense mental agony ; an inexpressible emotion convulsing 
the ashen lips, and great drops bedewing the white, con- 
tracted forehead. For perhaps a full minute — it seemed 
ages to me — he stood glooming upon me thus with those 
terrible trenchant eyes, full of a beauty dark and fierce — 
a beauty inexpressibly repellant, and such as we fancy 
“ has all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming.” I was 
neither charmed nor fascinated by the strange power of 
those subtle, scintillating eyes; I was fixed as by some 
stony spell. Misinterpreting my silence, those eyes glit- 
tered with a wild, triumphant light ; the pale, compressed 
lips relaxed, and the whole white, white face glowed with 
an unnatural expression of passion and exultation. The 
change, so sudden and so strange, came upon his voice, 
too ; for, as he drew nearer to me — so near that I felt his 
hot, panting breath burn along my cheek, he said, in tones 
so singularly soft and sweet that I could scarce believe them 
his : “ Forgive me ! oh, forgive me ! you who are my keenest 
peine du coeur. Remember that what I have done, was 
done for you. Do you ask, ‘ Que produiront vos travauz f ^ 
I answer — pardon me, my hope was to gain — yourself. 
Tis a mad passion drives me wild — possesses me like les 
peines de Venfer ! I would not distress you, bright belle 
Hoile polaire, n^e dans le del : I love you — love you avee 
fureur, and even to despair! Must I forever despair? 


192 


MY ROSES. 


What say those ‘soft, consenting eyes’? I have named 
my price — it is yourself. Are you willing to pay it? If 
so, then take this glittering proof of a secret that shall be 
buried forever in my own bosom. My heart is panting for 
your answer — your answer, comme un Eclair ! ” 

As he spoke, he held out the glittering bauble before 
me ; with the other insolent arm he sought to clasp my 
waist — the gate! the gate was left unguarded! Goaded 
to desperation by his insulting words — frenzied beyond all 
self-control by terror, rage, and pain, as he uttered “Your 
answer ! ” I sprang forward, with my left hand grappled 
the chain hanging from his hand, and, half shrieking — 
“ Take your answer, ‘ comme un eclair ’ / ” with my right 
arm, stiff and aching as it was, I brought down the sting- 
ing slender cane directly across those insolent lips, and, 
like an arrow, darted past him through the still unguarded 
gate ! I saw the red blood spout from his lip where that 
sharp, cutting blow fell ; and my hand, which would have 
torn from him the “ proof” of his falsehoods, felt as though 
it was being severed from the arm : the keen, point-linked 
chain, still held firmly in his grasp, ran through my hand, 
cutting the delicate glove, tearing its deep furrow into the 
flesh, and leaving the coveted treasure still in his hand ! I 
heard a deep execration of mingled rage and pain ; but on 
I flew up the broad walk. The front entrance was closed 
and dark ; 1 paused not a moment, but passed round the 
house with flying feet, making for the stairway by which I 
was wont to enter when I returned by the gardens. Half- 
way round, and I heard echoing footsteps close upon me. 
Juste del! I was pursued — hunted down to my very 
hearthstone ! Oh ! the dread horror that curdled round 
my sinking heart as I flew before my pursuer — across the 
broad pavement — along the colonnade — through the back 
door, which stood ajar — up the winding stairway, which 


MY ROSES. 


193 


was dimly lighted — to sink down, at last, exhausted and 
half-fainting, on the landing beside my own chamber door! 
Those echoing footsteps still pursued me : when I fell, two 
arms went round me, assisting me to rise — I looked up in 
wonder : it was Njnette ! 

“ Thank God ! ” I breathed. “ Help me in, child ; ” and 
she assisted me into the ' dressing-room. I fell upon her 
little couch — I could go no farther. The girl uttered a 
low cry as she glanced down at the sleeve of the white 
holiday dress, which she still wore : my hand had rested 
on her arm, and the sleeve was stained from wrist to elbow 
with my blood. 

Be quiet, Ninon — you ’ll waken some one. Get me 
some water, quick ! water I ” I gasped. She brought it 
hurriedly. I drank it off, and sank back into a state of 
semi-unconsciousness, just as the clock in the lower hall 
chimed the hour — one — two — three ! 

For half an hour, perhaps more — I know not how long 
it was — I lay in this half-conscious, half-stupefied state. 
I had all the while a sense of pain ; I knew that some one 
was watching over me, and working with me ; but I had 
not sufificient power or sense remaining, either to move or 
speak. When I awoke, as it were, I was still lying on 
Ninette’s low lounge, in a robe de nuit, and with my hand 
dressed and resting on a small pillow by my side. My 
good Ninon ! She was weeping, and frightened ; yet she 
had done all this for me herself, not even daring to call up 
my old nurse to assist her in getting me — as she phrased 
it — “ into my lady’s ways again.” 

^^Helas! mademoiselle — my poor, dear mistress, where 
have you been ? What has mangled your little hand in 
that shocking way? Eheu! surely this is one malaventure! 
What will the good young master say ? And, oh ! why 
17 


194 


MY EOSES. 


did you run so from me, mademoiselle? ” the girl lamented 
and questioned, alternately. 

“ Because you were running after me, I suppose,” I said, 
half smiling, to comfort her. “ How could I know that it 
was you, Ninon ? Why did you do so ? ” 

‘‘Why did I run after you, mistress? Because, you 
staid so late, I was nearly distracted. I Ve walked up and 
down, near the lower garden-gate, off and on, ever since 
sundown ; and sometimes I would go and look from the 
vestibule, thinking, perhaps, you ’d come the front way. 
I put on my shawl, and went round to the front at last. 
Well, I had n’t been there a minute, standing by that big 
rose, the ‘Cloth of Gold,’ when I hears your voice, saying 
something in a scream like, down at the gate — and here 
you come a-flyin’ up the walk. You didn’t see me; and, 
as you went sailing by, I just naturally ran after you. I 
did n’t think of doing anything else. Pardie ! made- 
moiselle, where have you been, to get so hurt and so fright- 
ened?” sobbed the poor girl. 

“ Stop crying, Ninon, and I will tell you. But, first, 
have you been to inquire for monsieur mon jplre this 
evening ?” 

“No, mistress; but, at tea-time I asked Thomas, and he 
said master was sleeping. Thomas never went out this 
evening, at all. Now, mademoiselle, do tell me how you 
come to hurt your poor hand so,” she entreated. 

As the girl was in my confidence, I narrated, in a few 
words, feebly spoken, the leading incidents of that event- 
ful night. The blessed Sabbath evening — day of quiet 
rest — what an evening and night this had been to me ! 
What events crowded into a few brief hours ! Yet all that 
I had done, and suffered, seemed to me a necessity. I felt 
that I could look up to heaven and say, with a full heart, 
“ Father I lead me in the right — give me Thy blessing — 


MY ROSES. 


195 


and forget me not, now that I walk in dark places, and in 
the very shadow of death ! ” 

“ Oh ! my dear lady,” cried Ninon, as I finished my 
brief recital, “ and you have promised to go to that dread- 
ful place again — to-morrow! Oh! don’t — don’t think of 
it! You will come to some harm — and then what will 
become of us all ? What will young master do ? What 
would monsieur le pere say, if he knew it ? Ah ! Miss, you 
won^t gOy now ? ” coaxed the girl. She was crying bitterly. 

“ I have promisedy my good Ninon,” I said. “ Don’t cry 

— assist me to my own bed ; and then do you go to sleep. 
Soyez tranquille — we will talk of this to-morrow.” 

Ninette obeyed — but I heard her sobbing still, after she 
had gone to bed in my dressing-room. Completely worn 
out with past excitement and present pain, it was but a 
short time after I pressed my own couch before a dreamy 
quiet brooded softly over my lately tensioned nerves ; and 
a delicious “ poppied warmth ” seemed stealing over every 
sense, wooing me to slumber. A sudden fancy struck 
me. I rose, and, with some difficulty unlocking one of the 
Venetians, looked out. The gray dawn was just breaking 
in the east — the lamp at the gateway flared up a moment 

— flickered — and went out. I stole back, crept under the 
snowy cover, and in a few moments lay lulled upon the 
bosom of “tired nature’s sweet restorer — balmy sleep.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE COBKA STKIKES. 

.... A step ! Who is it dares intrude 
On this, our known and guarded solitude ? 

The ghastly cheek, as marble cold and white, 

The wild eyes flashing with unholy light — 

The quivering lip — the forehead’s dew-moist pore — 

The sudden start — 

No more — I saw no more j 
My heart grew cold — my brain swam round — 

I sank upon the floor ! 

L. E. L. 

T here was a sudden jar, and with a start I found 
myself awake, and sitting bolt upright in the bed. 
“ Thank heaven ! to-nighPs packet brings Sigismond ! ’’ was 
the first thought which swept across my half-bewildered 
brain. 

“ I beg your pardon, mistress ; I did n’t mean to make 
such a noise ; I’m so sorry I waked you. Miss — but I 
wanted to raise the window a little more, and it slipped, 
ma’m’selle,” apologized Ninette from the direction of the 
window. 

“ Ah ! is it you, Ninon ? Is it daylight yet ? Have I 
been asleep at all ? ” I asked confusedly, trying to gather 
up my scattered ideas. 

“ Ou% mademoiselle — see ! ” and the girl opened the 
Venetians several inches — a broad bar of brilliant sun- 
light fell upon the wall directl;^ opposite me. It fell — 
how strange that it should strike just there! full across the 

196 


MY ROSES. 


197 


face of a large portrait of my father, which hung upon the 
wall, opposite my bed. My mother’s portrait, hanging by 
its side, was shrouded in gloom : the whole room, indeed, 
was dark, except that one spot, where the keen, searching 
light of heaven fell, like a revelation — kindling up the 
rich frame about the picture into glowing and golden fires. 
Ah, Dieu! what a thought was that, which, as I caught 
that face, cut fiashingly down into my soul, like a sharp, 
glittering blade dropped into deep, deep water ! The water 
instantly closed over the knife — it might rust away there, 
but it was hidden, and must so remain. Thousands of 
times I had looked upon the proud, handsome face — the 
face of manhood in its early prime — and the sight never 
shook me thus. Heaven help me — I must be going mad ! 
There was a terrible burning in my brain — a deadly sick- 
ness at my heart : the whole wall, dark as it was, seemed 
to shine with hot, glowering, glaring faces : — these pictures 
were driving me mad ! I fell forward with a groan — my 
face buried in the bedclothes. Chills shivered over me ; 
my eyes seemed all aflame with dancing lights ; and a 
strong, suflTocating stricture seized my throat, as if thin iron 
fingers were pressing deep into the flesh. Surely death 
itself were less agonizing. 

“ Oh ! Miss, your poor, poor hand ! ” cried Ninette, run- 
ning up and placing her arms about me. Let me lift you 
up — do let me do something to ease the pain.” 

Non — non. You cannot ease this pain,” I moaned. 

“ Yes, I can ; let me raise you up, anyhow — you ’ll faint, 
smothering down there ; ” and, suiting the action to the 
word, she placed her arms under mine, and half raised me. 
I broke from her, shuddering, and cowered down again like 
a guilty thing, upon the bed. There was a pause. 

“ Ninon ! is that blind closed ? ” 

“ No, mademoiselle,” 

IT* 


198 


MY ROSES. 


“Well, shut it — this instant, shut it!” I exclaimed, 
sharply ; and the girl obeyed. 

“Now, Ninon, be sure that you hang something over 
that — that picture there ; — do it to - day — you under- 
stand ? ” 

“Yes, Miss ; is it master’s you mean?” 

“ Of course it is.” 

“ And dead mistus’s too, mademoiselle ? ” 

“No — yes — yes — both, of course. I can’t bear to see 
— the frames injured,” I concluded, suddenly recollecting 
myself. 

“ La ! Miss Henriette,” laughed the maid ; “ what ’s to 
hurt the frames ? This room is so cool and dark always ; 
and there is n’t a fly. Miss, noT a spider, nor a — ” 

“ Tenez-vous en silence ! Soil ! Ecoutez vous f ” I said, 
sternly. 

“ Yes, mistress.” 

“ And, Ninon,” I added, kindly, “ run down and bring 
me the letters that came this morning.” 

“ Here they are, mademoiselle — only two. Thomas was 
just putting them into your vase as I came through the 
hall from breakfast ; so I brought them to give to you as 
soon as you awoke ; ” and she went to the table, returning 
with two letters. 

“ Both from Sigismond ! ” I exclaimed ; “ and to-night I 
shall see him!” But I was doomed to disappointment. 
His first letter, which had been delayed, spoke in high hope 
of his return on Monday (this) evening — one day earlier 
than he had expected ; but the last, written only yesterday 
morning, informed me that on account of some new com- 
plications in business that had sprung up unexpectedly, 
he would, in all probability, be detained until Wednesday 
night. 


MY ROSES. 


199 


“Don’t ‘lecture’ me, belle amante” he wrote; “it can’t 
be helped. Old Le Fevre is a stubborn customer to deal 
with — stubborn as a fact, or a donkey; which last I ’m in- 
clined to think he resembles, in more ways than one. But 
even he shall not delay me long ; I am famishing for the 
glance of a ‘ bonnie black e’e ; ’ a magnetic eye which draws 
me home. By all means follow Dupont’s advice, and get 
everything in train to leave the city, just as soon as possible 
after my return. I cannot tell yet what is to be done about 
your pet, the pretty Coralie — mats, nous verrons. I shall 
be down on the ‘Gipsy’ — she gets in at about four 
o’clock in the morning, and late as it may be; (or early 
rather,) I shall hope to find you awake, and ready to meet 
me. Ah ! fleur-de-lis, will you sleep while I am coming ? 
‘ Lady, I kiss thine eye,’ as Oberon says, (to keep those 
eyes awake, I suppose;) and so — au soin de Dieu, I leave 
you', my best jpaix da coeur. 

“Four la vie, votre Sauvolli^e.” 

The paper dropped from my hand : in the dim twilight 
of the room I had managed to read sufficient to give me a 
keen heartache. Two whole days more before he would 
come ! And when he did. Dr. Dupont would hurry us all 
off — and nothing be done for Coralie. I had said nothing 
to Sigismond concerning my interview with her at the old 
Plaza on the evening of his departure ; he knew nothing 
of that picture and letter — much less of all the incidents 
that had transpired in such bewildering succession within 
the last twenty-four hours. I did not intend communicat- 
ing anything until his return — then I could tell all. And 
to think that he, in this crisis of my affairs, should be de- 
layed for two whole days ! It was a severe trial to my im- 
patient, impetuous spirit. I felt strong enough to suffer, 
but I had never, as yet, learned to endure. Thoughts — 
thoughts, in a wild, bewildering chaos, again gathered about 
me. I was nervous and in pain, but my physical was as 
nothing to my mental suffering. I scarcely dared specu- 
late whether or not Bertliel would put his vile threats into 


200 


MY ROSES. 


execution. I felt driven forward as by some all-potent, 
irresistible fatality ; which made me almost ready to ex- 
claim, “Let him do it — let him do his worst. I cannot 
help it — and I will not care for it. He shall not crush 
me!” Then — go to Coralie I must: I had promised, and 
the appointment must be kept. I would bring her away 
with me, if possible. I thought of her sweet, beseeching 
face, as she said, “ Don’t stay long,” and I could not resist 
that. Besides — and here I glanced cautiously, almost fear- 
fully, up at the picture w'hich I felt persuaded was watch- 
ing me from the opposite wall : it was dim now ; I saw 
only the outline through the gloom, and the faint glitter 
of the frame. I could not finish that thought even to my- 
self — but it determined me to keep my appointment, even 
if I was compelled to be carried there. It must he done. 

At that moment the clock in the great hall below, 
struck. I caught my breath and listened. Nine. I rose 
hastily and crossed the room. Not daring to look up 
into the pictured face as I came closer to it, I fled along 
beneath it into the lighted dressing-room. As I passed, I 
felt a thrill of childish fear, as if dreading lest a cold 
hand should stretch downward, falling heavily upon me to 
arrest my flight, and challenge my secret questionings ? I 
breathed more freely when I passed up to the dressing-room 
window, which was open — the sunlight playing over dewy 
foliage below, and merry matin birds singing in the garden. 
Ninette was in the room, busying herself about my morn- 
ing toilette, etc. 

“ The bath is all ready, mademoiselle,” she said, as I 
entered. 

“Very well — you are always prompt, Ninon,” I said, 
as I opened the door of a second apartment leading from 
the dressing-room. “ Have me a fresh roll and a cqp of 
strong coflee sent up in half an hour.” 


MY ROSES. 


201 


“ Ouij mademoiselle.” 

Before ten o’clock I felt like a new being. The fresh, 
invigorating, life-giving bath, the strong, stimulating cof- 
fee, and a cool, light dressing-robe had done wonders for 
me. My maid had dressed my wounded hand ; and the 
pain had greatly abated, or I was more able to bear it — I 
scarce knew which : she had bathed my right arm again 
with a stimulant, and altogether I felt that I had in a 
measure “ returned to myself.” My thoughts were prin- 
cipally of Coralie. Whatever was done must be done 
speedily — and that by myself. I thought of leaving home 
for an indefinite period — leaving her amid temptations 
and dangers, creeping stealthily around her, like hot- 
mouthed beasts in the arena, at every circlo drawing 
closer and closer — the glare of ravenous eyes, the gnash 
and glitter of bloody and relentless fangs; and it was with 
difiiculty I smothered back the sharp shriek of terror 
which sprang from heart to lip, almost ere I was aware. 
The dangers I imagined were less dangerous than the real 
perils which surrounded her. Then I pleased myself 
fancying that all was over, that I had won her to my home 
and heart. I saw the joy, the sweet love -rest of a day 
when, forgiving my deception, she would dwell with me — 
happy, safe, loving, through long coming years. But let 
me not anticipate. 

I had but few minutes in which to indulge my thoughts. 
Catching up a silken scarf, I threw it over my shoulders in 
such a way as to throw a mass of the folds over my left arm 
and hand ; and went to visit my father. He was lying back 
upon the pillows when I entered, and looked so worn and 
haggard that no one could have believed it possible that 
he was once the original of the picture hanging in my bed- 
chamber. He was unusually ill and weak, and I felt 
strangely nervous and agitated as I took his offered hand 


202 


MY BOSES. 


and bade him good morning. My eyes were full of tears, 
my voice low and tremulous ; in some mysterious depth of 
my nature, beyond the soundings of self-analysis, lay the 
secret spring of those tears and tremors. Our interview, 
however, was short. 

“ Do you know, my dear child,” said my father, after I 
had sat by him a little while — “do you know that I have 
taken your advice, and sent for Dupont, this morning?” 

“Ah! sir, and do you feel so much worse?” I broke 
forth, while my tears fell fast. 

“Oh! no: don’t weep, my daughter — do not distress 
yourself about it, or I shall repent of my decision at 
once,” he replied. “No — not worse, I think; only very 
weak — very much prostrated. I sent for Dupont to ask 
his opinion about my leaving town. If I do not recruit a 
little, I fear I shall not be able to travel when Sauvollee 
returns. He will not be here until Wednesday night; or, 
rather, Thursday morning.” 

“ You have heard from him, then?” 

“Yes; and so have you. I sent two letters down for you 
this morning, when the mail was brought in. Le Fevre is 
giving him some trouble: it will not amount to much in the 
end, I imagine ; however, these annoying people must be 
satisfied. Our business is all right — everything square. 
Sauvollee manages well — very well. Was not that a ring, 
my dear?” 

Thomas entered at this moment. “ Dr. Dupont is below, 
sir.” 

“Show him up, Thomas. And now, my child,” he 
added, as the servant disappeared, “you must leave me for 
a while. I don’t care to have you see Dupont ; he will be 
distressing you with his conjectures that I am a great deal 
worse than I really am. There they come — you must go 
now ; ” and I obeyed. In the hall I met Eugene. 


MY ROSES. * 


203 


“Do everything you can for him,” I said, as I held out 
my hand. 

“If it be not already too late, my friend,” he replied, as 
he grasped my extended hand and shook it warmly. Then, 
seeing the tear-traces on my face, he added: “But we must 
try, and we must hope for the best while trying. God bless 
you ! ” and he passed on toward my father’s apartments. 

“Now, Ninette!” I exclaimed, as I again entered the 
dressing-room; “my citizen's dress once more — and be 
quick!” 

“Oh! mademoiselle — dear Miss Henriette, you are not 
going to that wicked, wicked place again! Oh! Miss, 
don’t go — don't! I had such a dreadful dream about it 
last night — or this morning, I mean. Alas! mistress, if you 
were to meet again that wicked, drunken M. Berthel in the 
streets, as you did last night, oh ! dear Miss, what would be 
done? He would expose you right there — hon Dieuf bon 
Dieu ! ” The girl, with her dream and her fears, was 
worked up to a “ white heat ” of excitement and alarm. 

“You know I have promised, my good Ninon, and what 
I say I must do. So make haste and get out my clothes, or 
I shall be obliged to do it myself,” I said, as I stood before 
the Psyche arranging my hair. 

“But, Miss — dear mistress, you will surely come to 
harm! Now, why can’t you wait until the young master 
comes back? Oh! if he knew what you are going 
through, would n’t he tear things to pieces to get here ? 
And he will be here to-morrow. Do — do wait!” persisted 
the maid, as she began, slowly, to lay out my citizen's cos- 
tume. 

“He will not be here before Thursday morning,” I said, 
“and I cannot ‘wait’ on him. Something must be done; 
and as there is no one to do it but a woman, by a woman 


204 


MY ROSES. 


it must be done — that ’s all. You are not wont to dispute 
my will, Ninette.” 

“Oh! Miss — don’t think it ’s that. I ’d go to the ends 
of the earth to do your bidding ; but I can’t bear to stay 
herey and know you are there. Do let me go with you, 
mistress, please.” 

“No, no, no — that would never ^o,pauvre enfant,^* I said, 
smiling at her naivete. “Make haste, however, and brush 
off my coat. When I fell on the pavement last night — ” 

^^Tiens! just only 1/Dok at these — these things!^* cried 
the girl, holding up the satiny black trousers, which had 
suffered somewhat in appearance where they had come 
in contact with the wet pave. I laughed aloud ; no soul 
could have helped it — the girl’s countenance was such a 
ludicrous combination of supreme disgust, contempt, and 
offended dignity. 

“Never mind — brush them up quick, Ninon — vive- 
ment ! I promise you it is the last time I shall wear them. 
Will that suit you ? ” 

“Yes — sure enough it may be the last time: you may 
be carried home — dead, in them — helas ! ” she answered, 
dolefully. 

“ Nay, not so bad as that, I trust, my good DoloreSy” I 
responded playfully ; and soon I stood up before the mirror, 
surveying myself, in full costume. 

“ And then what will you do with that poor hand ? ” she 
asked ; “ you can’t wear a glove at all.” 

“ Stay, I did not think of that — well — thus : will that 
do?” I replied, as I threw my handkerchief round* the 
hand and placed my little cane in it also, as though it held 
both. It pained me greatly at first to close the mutilated 
fingers on these articles, but there was no help for it ; and 
I did not intend to allow them to remain so for any length 


MY ROSES. 


205 


of time. I was ready, and it wanted only fifteen minutes 
to eleven. 

“ To think that you will go — and all alone by yourself 
— and into such a place broke forth Ninon, as she 
followed me down through the shaded garden-walk. We 
made our exit from the house as adroitly as formerly, and 
when we stood together at the garden gate, I said, seriously, 
“ You must not forget Ninon, that le bon Phre goes with us 
always — He will care for me. Now watch for me, but do 
not be uneasy. I don’t know at what hour I shall be able 
to return. Have my room ready, and see that my father — 
but Thomas is with him. I will not stay long.” Closing the 
gate, I emerged into the narrow back- street, hastened for- 
ward to a more frequented thoroughfare, called a passing 
hack, and in a few minutes drew up at the entrance of 
the “ Maison des Bijoux.” I glanced abroad. Everything 
was quiet — scarcely any one passing. I sprang out. 
“ Now be off with you, sir,” I exclaimed, tossing the hack- 
man his fare ; “ you need not wait for me.” 

“Thank ’e; and I reckon I needn’t wait — seein’ as 
when I sets young gents down here, they can’t say how 
long they ’ll stay,” muttered the man, with a leer, as he 
pocketed the coin. Again the hot, haughty blood flushed 
into my face — I could not grow accustomed to such things. 
But — soon I should be done with them, forever. I turned 
away quickly, and bounded up the steps. No one in the 
hall — not even the lackey, Jean ; but, awaiting me at 
the half-open door of the private parlor, stood Coralie, 
and in a moment I held her to my heart. 

“ Thanks ! a thousand thanks for your punctuality ! 
See how prompt you are ! ” she said, softly and joyfully,- as 
she closed the door and pointed to the pendule on the 
mantel. It was just upon the stroke of eleven. 

“ Where is the Madame ? ” I inquired, after the first flush 
18 


-206 


MY ROSES. 


of our joyful meeting was over. “ I wish to see her at 
once — to have this matter of your leaving here, adjusted 
speedily. I am not going away without you — indeed, I 
must take you away this morning.’^ 

“ Oh ! that you could do so ! ” she fervently exclaimed. 
“ But, no — Madame will not consent to that, I fear. She 
is at home, and desired me to wait for you at this door, 
saying that she would come presently. She seems very 
greatly annoyed this morning — I do not know why. Poor 
woman ! her life is really a most miserable one.” 

“ Could you expect it to be otherwise, dearest? No — 
believe me, misery is the direct and necessary consequence 
of the life she leads. It is from all this wretchedness that 
I would hurry you away. We cannot leave too soon. I 
trust that Madame Lesueur will give me an early audience, 
for I am exceedingly impatient. My father is ill, and I 
ought to be by his bedside even now.” 

“Your father! you have then a father living?” uttered 
Coral ie. 

“ Yes — did I not tell you ? ” 

“ No. Ah! what a happy thing to have a father — or a 
mother,” she sighed. “Is he an old man, Henri?” 

“ Not very old ma chhre, but a confirmed invalid — nay, 
dying, I fear.” 

“ Oh ! I hope not. Why could I not go to your father, 
Henri — for a little while, you know, until I can obtain 
employment?” queried Coralie, her eyes dilating and flash- 
ing with joy at the idea. 

“Perhaps — perhaps you can, dearest,” I answered. 
Her words brought back a thought which filled my heart 
with burning pain. She noted my sad expression, and 
hastened to change the conversation. “ See, Henri, what 
you left here last night. I found it lying on the floor 
there by the table, and have kept it for you. I knew 


MY ROSES. 


207 


it was yours, because no gentleman entered this room 
last night, except yourself.’^ And she handed me my 
little pistol. I took it — examined it carefully — it was 
all right. 

“ Perhaps it was quite as well that this was in your 
possession last night : had it been in mine, I should have 
used it rashly,” I half soliloquized. “And it maybe you 
had best keep it still,” I added, “ lest I may be tempted 
to — to — ” 

“ What ? what would you do? ” she asked, hastily; for I 
had cocked the pistol and held it up, poised just above her 
bosom. 

“Kill you — perhaps — if I cannot get you away,” I 
answered, smiling, as I threw my arm about her waist and 
drew her toward me. She looked iip confidingly into 
my face with those glorious love-lit eyes, and murmured, 
“Yes, that would be better — much better.” 

“ Ha ! what ’s that — in the name of Heaven ? ” I ex- 
claimed, a moment after. It was in the hall — the con- 
fused sound of men struggling together. A heavy body 
came crashing heavily against the door of the parlor where 
we sat. I sprang to my feet, with Coralie trembling on my 
left arm, which had encircled her. My right was dis- 
engaged, ‘and still held the pistol ready cocked. 

“You can’t do it, sir — them’s my orders, sir — and 
I ’ll swear you sha’n’t go in thar in that fix ! ” said a de- 
termined voice, as the struggle continued. The voice was 
Jean’s. 

Mille diahles! Off! you yellow hell-hound! Off! I 
say. Take that! now ‘down to hell, and say /sent you 
there ! ’ ” jarred forth a deep, angry voice. God protect me ! 
I knew it too well — Berthel ! There was a sharp wail of 
pain — then the door shook violently — burst open, and 
Berthel, like a perfect madman, leaped into the room and 


208 


MY KOSES. 


confronted me ! A deadly cobra-di-capello coiled for the 
fatal spring could not have astonished or appalled me 
more. Without coat, vest, or cravat — his hair staring up 
from a demoniac face ; his eyes glaring and blood-shot ; 
his purpled and swollen lips champing foam ; his right 
hand brandishing that glittering knife with fresh blood 
staining its keen, thin point — he stood a moment like a 
tiger crouching for the fearful spring, or the cobra poising 
himself for the point in which to strike his deadly fang ! 
It was but a moment — I saw that he meant mischief. I 
had not moved from my position. 

“Stand back, sir! — keep your distance, or I fire!” I 
exclaimed, bringing the pistol to bear upon him. 

*^That for your penny whistle ! ” he shouted, with a*wild, 
derisive laugh, and snapping his finger and thumb. With 
one savage bound he sprang toward me, and I saw in a 
fiash that he was mad — stark mad with drunken rage. 
He half reeled — his hand was unsteady — but, dashing 
Coralie aside, he gasped : 

“ Now — now, belle tentatrice — mart ou vive, you ^re mine ! 
Now — for a love-embrace, in spite of God and the devil 
— douce — decevanfe — ange dechu!” His fiery, serpent 
eyes glared into mine — his hot, blasting, drunken breath 
stified me — one arm was thrown about me, half pinioning 
my right arm to my side, while that keen blue blade came 
hissing down upon my left shoulder, cutting its way diag- 
onally half across the bosom. With one despairing shriek, 
“ Sigismond ! ” I half raised my arm — it was all I could 
do — and, without an aim, sent the contents of the ready 
pistol into his side ! 

''Feu de Venfer ! how it stings — already?'' he muttered ; 
and, not so much on account of the shot, I think, as that 
he was overwhelmed, exhausted by the vehement rage of 
his own drunken passions — he loosed his hold of me, 


MY ROSES. 


209 


and fell heavily at my feet. But I, too, was going fast — 
sinking, fainting. I saw a confused chaos about me, in 
which Madame Lesueur, Marguerite, and Coralje mingled ; 
— I saw my own blood springing through the snowy linen 
on my bosom — and, with one blind thought of Coralie and 
the long-dreaded revelation of my deception which must 
and would come now — the thousand dancing lights went 
out in a mighty darkness — my heart grew cold — my 
pulses stopped — I saw and heard and felt no more ! 

18 * 


CHAPTER XVI. 


OPEN SESAME ! ” 

Rosalind. Do you know I am a woman ? 

Phebe. If sight and shape be true, 

Why then, my love, adieu. 

Shakspeake. 

She might not frame her utterance. Down she bent 
Her head upon an arm so white, that tears 
Seemed but the natural melting of its snow. 

Touched by the flushed cheek’s crimson ; yet life-blood 
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as these ! 

Farewell ! as we have often met 
We may not meet again — 

But on my heart the seal is set 
Love never sets in vain. 

Landon. 

I F there be a weakness in the nature of woman that I 
sincerely and deeply deplore, it is that of fainting away 
when a crisis comes up that ought to be met, boldly, 
calmly, and resolutely. I consider that there seems in it 
something that savors of cowardice — a weak and timid 
shirking of the responsibility which that crisis brings : it 
argues a lapse from the courage necessary to face emer- 
gencies, thus to drop off into a state of insensibility and 
allow events to take their own course, we, meanwhile, never 
lifting a finger to oppose or direct them ! I am of the 
opinion that such lapses into the legitimate and “ lovely 
weaknesses of woman,” (!) by one who has always prided 
herself upon her strength and vigor, and ner-ye, (as I have,) 

210 


MY KOSES. 


211 


demand an apology ; and if I were able to find one, I 
should be most happy to announce it. As it is, I have 
really nothing to offer in extenuation, unless it be that with 
a mind distracted for many days by hopes and fears, doubts 
and perplexities — suffering severe bodily pain and shaken 
sadly at the sight of my own blood — it is scarcely to be 
wondered at, if, despite all my boasted strength and nerve, 
I should, for once in my life, succumb to the soft spirit of 
Insensibility- — the spirit that neither thinks nor dreams 
— that forgets to love, and ceases to regret — that brings 
neither joy nor grief, but only a still, strange nepenthe to 
the worn and weary ; soothing both body and soul for a 
season into a lotus-crowned and Lethean rest. 

A great pang had struck into my heart as I found my- 
self going — going — fast sinking away into that chilly 
darkness of utter unconsciousness ; and yet, perhaps, it was 
best so. I see now that it was — since events have proved 
it so. Wounded, bleeding — to all appearance dead — 
and because of her : my sex revealing itself through my 
sacrifice and suffering for her ; surely — surely it was better 
thus, than that I should stand up tamely before Coralie and 
acknowledge in common words the deception I had prac- 
tised upon her — as I believed, “for her ultimate good.” 
There would have been a coldness, a calmness about that, 
which must have chilled her affection for me; — but was it 
possible that she could look upon me as I lay there — rigid 
and still as if bereft of life for her — and not, at least, /or- 
givef Yes, I think it was better thus; and when the 
keenest agony of my suffering was over, I no longer re- 
garded as a ‘misfortune’ the brutal and bloody blow 
which had cast me helpless upon the deep sympathies of 
her noble nature. I suffered — but through it all I began 
to see and to feel that “Right Hand in the darkness,” 
which was leading me, “by a way not known,” by a path 


212 


MY KOSES. 


all undreamed of, to the accomplishment of my purpose. 
Verily, He had “ given his angels charge concerning us.” 

I think I realized something of this, as the thick dark- 
ness melted slowly away from my faculties, and life crept 
languidly back to the still pulses and rigid limbs. When 
thought and sense returned to me, struggling up like 
white-winged angels through some confused and gloomy 
chaos, I lay for some time with closed eyes, striving hard 
to gather back my scattered sensibilities, and to realize who 
and where I was. Life returned to my mental being in ad- 
vance of the physical ; I began to hear murmured voices, 
coming as it were from a great distance ; then I felt that 
cool, caressing fingers were bathing my forehead, and others 
chafing my rigid limbs. Gradually my senses came back 
to me : I heard a low voice exclaim, “ Bon Dieu ! will 
she n&ver awake ? ” It was the voice of Marguerite — not 
Coralie. Ah! how sank my heart that she was silent! 
Perhaps she was not there; perhaps she now — angry and 
mortified, had fied my presence — leaving me to the tender 
mercies of comparative strangers. I could bear it no 
longer — I must see. Slowly and with an effort I opened 
my eyes — oh ! so heavily, so wearily — and looked around 
me. Close by my side knelt Coralie ; her white face ghastly 
in its pallor ; a picture of agonized suspense ; her hands 
clasped tightly ; her pale lips apart ; her still, steady eyes, 
from which all the lustre had gone out, fixed immovably 
upon my face. 

“ Living f living yet ! thank God ! — thank God ! ” 
burst from her lips as she caught the glance of my unclos- 
ing eyes. Then she bowed over me, murmuring “OA.' 
Henri!” and broke down completely, giving way to a pas- 
sionate flood of tears. Alas ! how well I knew that in that 
low, half heart-broken exclamation, she was bidding her 
young lover an eternal farewell ! He died but one short 


MY ROSES. 


213 


hour ago ; he went down with me into the hms de la mort. 
From the dead, as it were, a new spirit had arisen — one 
she was not yet familiar with — as bright and pure as that 
of “ first and passionate love,” perhaps ; but as yet she did 
not realize this : her soul was bowed over the corpse of its 
young love ; now as dead to her as if he had never, never 
been. My heart ached for her with a dull agony, harder 
to bear than the acutest pain. My eyes closed heavily : 
I could not bear to look upon her grief — and I the cause. 
In a moment I felt her cold and quivering lips pressed 
eagerly to mine, as she whispered between the sobs, 
‘‘Wake! oh! wake again, my best friend! do not leave me 
— ’t is your poor Coralie that calls you ! ” That voice, it 
seemed, would have called me back from the dead. Our 
eyes met, and I murmured, feebly, “ Forgive I ” The swift 
and vivid blush which fiashed for an instant over her pal- 
lid face, and then as quickly faded, leaving it by contrast 
paler than before, showed that she had, with woman’s light- 
ning-like intuition, instantly seized upon my meaning. 
She had no words with which to answer that appeal ; she 
bent down and kissed me twice, eagerly, fervently, lovingly, 
and her warm tears fell over my face. It was enough ; I 
knew that I was forgiven, that I was still beloved, and I 
was content. 

“Marguerite, tell the doctor he can come in again now; 
we have everything arranged,” said the voice of Madame 
Lesueur, who seemed to be bustling about me, but who, 
until then, I had been too much preoccupied to notice. 

“ No, no, no! don’t call in a surgeon,” I exclaimed, with 
sudden vehemence, all the strangeness and unexplainahle- 
ness of my situation bursting at once upon me. “I — I — 
indeed I cannot see any one now ; wait — wait until I can 
get home, and then — ” 

“ My poor child, look around you a little,” said Madame 


214 


MY ROSES. 


Lesueur, in a kindly tone, taking up my hand in both of 
hers. “You were badly hurt, and we were obliged to 
send at once for a surgeon. Baptiste brought the first one 
he could find ; I never thought to ask hi's name. Your 
wound has been dressed, you see — and the doctor retired 
until we dressed you also, ma pauvre petite. We see so 
much of life’s strange phases, that I am rarely surprised at 
anything; yet I confess you have astonished me. You 
will scarcely know yourself now.” 

It was with a half-bewildered sense of my own identity 
that I looked around me, and took in, slowly, a realiz- 
ing knowledge of my situation. In that same luxurious 
apartment where the cobra struck me, I was lying. From 
the low impromptu couch, I could see the spot where he 
fell, stricken in return ; the glowing roses and mosses of 
the carpet were dyed with his blood. Two large windows 
were open, and the light came in softly through falling 
draperies of heavy rose -colored satin and filmy lace. 
Directly in front of one of these windows stood the 
Madame’s favorite fauteuil^ and, thrown carelessly upon 
it, I saw my “citizen’s dress ” — the coat gashed and blood- 
stained. What would Ninon think of it now? This re- 
called me to myself, and I began to note the metamor- 
phose which had taken place during my unconscious- 
ness. Bandages were passed about my shoulder and 
breast; a long, delicate, white robe enveloped me from 
head to foot; and my wounded hand was lying on a small 
pillow at my side. Instinctively I put my hand to my 
upper lip ; the silky mustache, which I had worn so cava- 
lierly, was gone. Madame Lesueur smiled as she noted 
the involuntary action. “All gone, petite,” she said; 
“ and you cannot think how much more beautiful you are 
without it. Here is the good doctor, come to cure you, 
ma chlre,” I looked up nervously, as the tall gentleman 


MY ROSES. 


215 


came forward, and took my hand. Voyons! it was Dr. 
Dupont ! 

“Oh! Eugene, my friend — how can I — ” I stammered, 
in intense confusion. 

“Hush! hush! no explanations now,” he smiled, placing 
his finger on his lip. “Explanations will come all in good 
time : meanwhile it ’s all right, my dear friend — trust me 
as I trust you,” and he pressed my hand warmly. Just 
then a sudden twinge of severe pain passed down my 
shoulder — as it were again the cutting of that keen, 
dreadful knife. I moaned heavily. 

“Am I — am I much hurt?” I asked, looking up into 
Eugene’s kindly and anxious face. 

“Hurt? oh, no; not a great deal. You are a brave 
woman, and will get over it soon,” he replied, encourag- 
ingly. I thought he was saying this merely to reassure 
me. 

“Tell me the truth, and seriously, mon ami; tell me if I 
am in danger.” 

“Seriously then — no,” he answered. “Not in any im- 
mediate or imminent danger. It is a severe flesh wound, 
which might kill delicate ladies who do not possess consti- 
tutions, but will not kill anybody with the will to live as 
strong in them as it is in you. But you must be quiet and 
careful. This weather is bad for you ; talking and excite- 
ment are very bad. You are weak from loss of blood — 
have suffered a severe nervous shock — but with care you 
will soon be your own peculiar self again. Mon Dieu! 
what a blessing the fellow was almost too drunk to stand, 
and shaking so, or he might have killed you on the spot. 
As it was, he partially missed his aim, no doubt ; his hand 
was too unsteady.” 

“Have you been up to see him, doctor?” asked Madame 
Lesueur. 


216 


MY ROSES. 


“Yes; I went in for a few minutes, while you were 
making my young friend here a little more comfortable. 
Duplanche and his assistant were there, doing all that can 
be done for him. His wound is an ugly one — yet not 
dangerous in itself, I think. I am happy to assure you of 
this, my friend,” he added, turning to me. 

“ Thank Heaven fpr that ! ” I exclaimed. 

“Yes,” answered Eugene, “I am glad of it for your 
sake. The man ‘ deserves killing,’ as the saying is ; but I 
would not have it that you should hereafter reproach your- 
self with having taken his life. Besides, he is killing him- 
self just as fast as his master could wish. He will be in 
an attack of delirium tremens before ten o’clock to-night, 
and then Duplanche must look out for his patient.” 

“ Is he here still ? ” I questioned. 

*^Tenez! Have I not interdicted talking?” smiled the 
doctor. “I insist upon doing all the conversation my- 
self — cannot admit of your assistance, at present. Yes ; 
Monsieur Berthel is here — up stairs ; he could not be re- 
moved to his hotel. He has been here all the morning, 
has he not?” he added, addressing Madame Lesueur. 

“Dm, monsieur,” was the reply. “He was here last 
evening until quite late ; then about three this morning ; 
a most unprecedented thing, sir, at my house; he came 
again, and sent for me in a perfect storm of rage. He 
had been drinking a great deal — I could see that ; and, 
oh ! what a way he was in ! He swore to kill me right 
there, if I did not at once let him have a room here, and 
vowed that the house was his, and he would stay until it 
pleased him to go. I had no room to give him, but the 
small one just over the hall — the one window of which 
overlooks the hall-door ; so I put him there, sir. I asked 
him if it would do; he said, ‘Just the thing, exactly.’ 
So I left him there. He never came down at all until he 


MY ROSES. 


217 


rushed in here to kill poor monsieur — beg pardon — 
mademoiselle, I mean. Possibly he saw you when you 
arrived, Miss : you came in a carriage, and he could see 
you enter the house, from his window. Jean tried in vain 
to prevent his coming into this room ; but he gave the 
poor fellow a bad cut upon the arm, and forced him to let 
go. Ah! juste del! If I could have known his inten- 
tions, he should not have remained in the house : I should 
have called in the police. But he gave no hint of his 
bloody design, and I never would have dreamed of it my- 
self.” 

“ It is more than probable he had no definite or matured 
design,” said Dr. Dupont. “ He was enraged at some one, 
or something — we know not what ; had been unsuccess- 
ful at play, perhaps, and drinking freely. An habitu^ of 
this house, he turned hither, scarce knowing what he did. 
And, seeing our friend here enter the house, he .possibly 
mistook that young gallant for some other person. I am 
confident that he was too far gone to know very distinctly 
either what he saw or did.” 

“We think we know certainly why he assaulted Mon- 
sieur d’Herbelot,” said Madame Lesueur. “That young 
gentleman he chose to look upon as a rival.” 

“Ah! and that is it — is it?” cried Eugene. “Well, 
in that case, the attack, in his state, was the most natural 
thing in the world.” I listened to these conjectures, and 
others — but I said nothing. I knew well why Berth^l had 
attacked me, and that “in his state it was the most natural 
thing in the world ; ” but I kept my own counsel for the 
present. Another thought took possession of me. 

“ Dr. Dupont,” I said, softly, “ I am anxious to go home. 
Can I go ? Oh, I must go home ! ” Somehow I felt weak- 
ened down ; I had no control over myself ; and, at the 
19 


218 


MY ROSES. 


name, the remembrance of home, I turned my face to the 
pillow like a child, and burst into tears. 

my dear lady?” cried the doctor, springing up 
and coming to my side. He drew my hand away from my 
eyes, and said, soothingly, “ A severe case of nostalgia ? 
Yes — yes: only keep quiet, and do not — for Heaven’s 
sake, mademoiselle — do not excite yourself, and you shall 
go home — there, I have promised. I will take you home 
myself. Will that do now ? ” 

“ Yes. God bless you, Eugene! ” 

“That, is well. Now remain perfectly calm; I will see 
you safe home. Don’t you feel as though you could trust 
me?” 

“Of course I do; and thank you too, my friend. But 
Coralie must go too,” I added, earnestly, turning to Mad- 
ame Lesueur. 

“ Coralie ? ” questioned Dr. Dupont ; and then following 
the direction of my eye, his own fell upon the beautiful 
bowed figure that bent at the foot of my couch, partially 
concealed by a heavy chair. I think she was sitting on 
the floor, her arms thrown up on the low bed, and her face 
buried in them. She only raised it when her name was 
spoken by a strange voice. How still she was I So silent ! 
— silent because the limits of human language lie far 
within the boundaries of human feeling 1 So still — so 
breathless she sat there — all seemed to forget she was in 
the room. I read her well. In her high heart, in her 
innocent and confiding nature, there was a delicate devot- 
edness to me, an unutterable depth of tenderness and tears 
for my sufierings ; and yet that young heart, I knew too 
well, was even now convulsed and aching with a tremu- 
lous misery which she could neither crush, nor, perhaps, 
very well define. Alas ! I knew it — and its cause. The 
gleam of joy that flashed a moment over her expressive 


MY ROSES. 


219 


face when I said, “ Coralie must go,” told me truly that 
she had not turned from me, that she still clung to me — 
that in losing the hoy lover ^ she had not disdained to hold 
fast the woman friend. Ah, how I thanked her for that 
silent assurance of her forgiveness and her love ! 

But the fine face of Eugene Dupont, as his gaze fell upon 
my lovely proUg^e, I could not read so well. It seemed at 
first a flash of surprised delight, then a deep flush spread 
suddenly over cheek and brow : he turned away quickly, 
and, walking to a window, drew aside the drapery a mo- 
ment and looked out. The emotion passed. I did not 
understand it then ; it was plain enough to me afterward. 
Coming back to my side, he said, in his usual genial, grace- 
ful way, “You wish to return home, my very impatient 
patient ; and I think it would be much better for you to be 
there. And you desire also that this young lady,” bowing 
respectfully to Coralie, “should accompany you. Very 
well ; she shall go — shall she not?” he added, turning to 
Madame Lesueur. Seeing her about to hesitate in her re- 
ply, he said, “ A word with you, madame, if you please.” 
They walked to the other end of the apartment. Coralie’s 
head drooped lower and lower, till it rested again on the 
couch at my feet. 

“Courage! courage! carissimaf” I whispered. I saw 
that she was trembling lest the Madame should decide 
against her. Just then I heard Eugene say, in a low, ex- 
cited tone, “ Well, for a while, then. It must be so. She 
must not be excited by opposition. Do you give consent ? 
I tell you plainly that it may be necessary to her life.” 

In a short time he came to me, saying, “It is settled en- 
tirely as you wish, my fair friend. This young lady shall 
accompany you, by especial permission — to nurse you up 
again. Are you an experienced nurse, mademoiselle?” he 
added, turning to Coralie with a smile. She looked up, 


220 


MY ROSES. 


her lustrous eyes beaming, the soft tint of color creeping 
into the marble cheek, and the faint shadow of a smile rip- 
pling the sweet mouth. “ I will take lessons from you — 
in cheerfulness and hopefulness,” she said, with naivete. 
The doctor laughed, and colored again slightly. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “ Cheerfulness and hopefulness 
are excellent tonics ; use them freely, and you will become 
a capital nurse. Ah ! I foresee that I shall soon be de 
trop as your physician, mademoiselle. Your young friend, 
and the elixir of happiness which she administers, will 
soon place you beyond my jurisdiction entirely. But,” he 
continued, looking at his watch, “ we are wasting time. 
It is now four o’clock, and I have two visits to make ; but 
at six, precisely, I shall be here again, with Pierre and 
your own carriage, to convey you home. It will be cooler 
then — and darker, somewhat,” he added, sotto voce, to me. 
“.You must be ready. Mademoiselle Coralie; and you, 
Mademoiselle Henriette, must be perfectly still. I charge 
you not to stir one inch, or lift a finger, until I return. If 
I am to give you up so speedily, I will at least, while I am 
your physician, treat you rigour eusemerit. For the pres- 
ent, ladies, adieu,” and Eugene was gone. 

“What a fine, affable gentleman he seems to be!” cried 
Madame Lesueur, as the young doctor disappeared. 

“ Not only ‘seems to be,’ but is, en verite,” I replied. “ I 
have known Eugene Dupont for years, and the better I 
know, the more I admire and esteem him.” 

“ And how fortunate that Baptiste should have stumbled 
upon him, instead of some other surgeon whom you did not 
know, and dare not trust as a friend,” she continued. 

“ Yes ; it has been all ordered aright ; I am content 
and grateful. Come to me, Coralie, my darling,” I said, 
and the sweet girl knelt by ray bedside and folded my right 


MY ROSES. 


221 


hand lovingly within her own. “/am * content and grate- 
ful/ too/’ she whispered. 

“ Will you not come also, Marguerite ? ” I asked. All 
this time she had been sitting apart from us, at the farther 
side of the room, isolated and alone. My heart ached for 
her : no one had said to her, “ I cannot leave you here ; 
you must go hence with me.” She came without a word, 
and knelt down by Coralie. “ Regal reine Marguerite,” 
Berth^l had styled her ; and even now she looked every 
inch a queen. Her proud head was bowed, and a cloud 
came over those great flashing, black eyes — a cloud of 
tears — a mist of human feeling through which I could 
discern the shining and throbbing of a splendid soul-star. 
She put her arm about Coralie’s neck, and, pressing one 
long kiss upon the fair brow, whispered, in a broken, husky 
voice, “ Good-by. It is the last time that we shall stand 
together as companions ; you will go — and for me, it mat- 
ters not. Good-by now, my better angel; the sole good 
which has looked kindly upon the lost and lonely Mar- 
guerite. If you think there is a God to whom we may 
pray, then in your prayers remember her still.” Coralie 
clung to her companion, sobbing convulsively ; but Mar- 
guerite, gently loosing the detaining arms, raised herself, 
and, taking my hand, said in low, impassioned tones, “ I 
have found at last that ‘ peculiar leaf’ of which we once 
spoke, you remember — a ‘good woman.’ When I saw you 
here as a man, I judged you as a man ; I gave you credit 
for no other than a sinful and selfish purpose ; for I have 
been taught by bitter experience what amount of confidence 
is to be placed in the protestations of men. But when I 
see you lying here, and know that you are a woman — one 
whose motive has only been to seek and save a sister wo- 
man ; when I see the sacrifices you have made, the trials 
you have undergone, the pain you now suffer ; when I 


222 


MY ROSES. 


think of the dangers you have dared in venturing here, to 
drag the tiger’s prey from his very jaws — I tell you, mad- 
ame, that I have found the talismanic ‘ leaf’ — a good wo- 
man — and, from henceforth, I shall bind your memory to 
my heart. I shall keep my promise ; I shall wear your 
remembrance as an amulet. One day, perhaps, you will 
know that by your woman’s faith, your woman’s courage, 
and your woman’s love, you have redeemed a wayward 
and erring nature, although you intended it not. You are 
a woman of action — neither a ‘ slave ’ nor a ‘serpent,’ such 
as men make of their subjects. And let me say to you, 
that if ever there is any good accomplished for women like 
me, it will be done by women like you. The ‘slaves,’ and 
the ‘ serpents,’ and the men that make them, can do no- 
thing. It is for your action and your example, noble lady, 
that I bless you — that I shall reverence you, and bless 
you with my latest breath. You have given me back a 
hope; you have rekindled a spark of my lost faith in hu- 
manity ; you have given a new guiding-star to my solitary, 
wandering bark, which may one day lead it safely into 
calmer and purer waters.” 

Dieu le veuille ! Dieu le veuille ! oh! ma chlre Mar- 
guerite!^' sobbed Coralie, still kneeling, and lifting her 
tearful eyes to heaven. I, too, from the very depths of my 
soul, echoed her prayer, “ God grant it.” 

“ For this, then,” resumed Marguerite, “ I shall never 
cease to bless you; and if there be, as we are told, (and I, 
if I could, would fain believe,) an Eye that sees us all — a 
Hand that rewards us all according to our deserts — then 
that Almighty Hand will surely bless you also. Farewell! 
and sometimes remember — Marguerite ! ” She was weep- 
ing wildly ; her impetuous nature swayed now to its grief 
with the same abandon as when it drained the wine of 
pleasure to the lees. She wrung my hand painfully, 


MY EOSES. 


223 


hurried from the room, and for many days I saw her no 
more. But, when my necessity came, she did not forget 
me. 

That was a memorable evening. The two hours that in- 
tervened between the departure of Eugene Dupont and his 
return were crowded with hopes, aspirations, and memories 

— enough to furnish the lifetime of many a one. After 
Marguerite’s passionate farewell, I stated to Coralie and 
Madame Lesueur, as briefly as possible, who and what I 
was, and why I had come among them as I did. I related 
all that was necessary concerning my last night’s interview 
with Berthel, and represented him in his true colors. And 
I concluded by an appeal to Madame Lesueur, into which 
I threw all the eloquence and arguments of which I was 
mistress, conjuring her to give Coralie to me — to be mine 
pour la vie ! 

“You plead like a lover ^ still,” she said, with a smile. 

“/ am one still — will ever be one,” I exclaimed. “If, 
in after years, I shall find one who would have sought 
Coralie as I have done ; who will love her as I have loved 

— then I shall be willing to resign my position as devoted 
‘ lover,’ but not till then.” 

“ You will never find that individual among men, made- 
moiselle,” said Madame Lesueur, decidedly. “Men, as I 
know them, are made of different material than that which 
Nature uses in the manufacture of generosity, disinter- 
estedness, and self-sacrifice,” she added, with bitterness. 
“ But, perhaps, I ought not to constitute myself a judge : 
my life has been on a ‘ lower level ’ than yours ; possibly' 
I have never met the ‘ best of men,’ as they are styled.” 

“ Well, madame, since I am only a woman,” I said, play- 
fully, “ and not even one of the ‘ best of men ’ — having 
now no claims whatever upon the sex you are inclined to 
depreciate — there is no reason why you should not consent 


224 


MY ROSES. 


that Coralie make my home her home for life. I frankly 
tell you that you have no legal right to detain her.” 

“ You say truly,” she replied, humbly: “I have no ^ legal 
right’ to detain her here. I have no ‘right’ at all; but 
that I love her as my own child ; that I have nursed her 
at my bosom as my own child ; that through long, weary 
years I have watched over her, and guarded her from all 
harm ; that I have brought her up as Well as I knew how, 
believing her to be the child of a better woman than I ever 
was, or can ever hope to be. That is all my ‘ right,’ made- 
moiselle, and to you I now resign it. Be as faithful to her 
interests as I have been, and her dead mother will look 
down upon you in kindness and love. It is because I know 
her own mother would will it so, that I agree to part with 
her, and resign her to you and a higher life. I ought, I 
suppose, to see more clearly the benefits arising from this 
change, but there is a selfish love for the child in my heart, 
which partially blinds me to these great advantages. You 
must bear with me, mademoiselle ; you are rich, and gay, 
and honored, and can have many to love you : I am poor, 
and despised. I have had but one thing on earth to love, 
and to hope loved me.” 

The usually cold eyes were now brimful of tears ; the 
usually calm and premeditated tones were broken ; the 
studied self-possession was gone, and her manner was full 
of genuine, long-suppressed emotion. Coralie threw her- 
self into her foster-mother’s arms ; and I, who felt as 
though I was robbing her of her last treasure, held out my 
hand, exclaiming, “ Forgive me, that through me ‘ your 
house is left unto you desolate.’ ” 

I looked at the bright head, pillowed fondly upon a 
bosom I had deemed so pulseless. I remembered the joy- 
ful elation with which that sobbing child had contem- 
plated leaving this impassive woman, and I said to myself, 


MY ROSES. 


225 


** Wise judges we are of each other ! ” Did Coralie ever 
dream that such bitter tears would be shed when she bade 
adieu to the “ Maison des Bijoux ” ? The child-heart was 
very sore, no doubt. She had found that she would leave 
behind a sincere affection which she never before had fath- 
omed ; she had lost also, that day, the light of a Love 
which she expected would go forth with her, and walk by 
her side forever. Poor child ! We learn life slowly. As 
the years pass by, there are days when we go down alone 
into the dead past, with its dust and darkness ; and our 
errand is ever a sad one. We go to bury away out of our 
sight some dead love, or broken hope, or faded memory. 
Coming out from the crypts, we replace the stone with dry, 
calm eyes, and only write anew upon the marble, “ Disap- 
pointment.” But all this was then new to my Coralie. 
My soul went forth to her in deepest sympathy, as I saw 
the strong effort of her reason to bury away out of her 
sight this first rich bloom of purest passion — first flower 
of love that had “ bloomed in the summer of her heart.” 
But, if we would win the jewel of any great good, we 
must pay the price. Tears stole over my face, as I reflected 
that it was through both sympathy and sufiering that I 
had learned the magic “Open Sesame” which released my 
treasure from her dark surroundings, and gave her to me 
forever. Had I known the price before being called to 
pay it, would I have shrunk from the demand? No, 
surely, “ a thousand times, no.” A truce to reflection — at 
that moment a carriage was driven rapidly up to the front 
door, and stopped. Eugene, true to his appointment, was 
there to carry us home. 

“What! not yet ready?” he exclaimed, as he entered 
the room and his eye fell upon Coralie. “Why, young 
ladies, I expected to find you bonneted, mantled, etc., in 
readiness for your drive. Are you not going home this 


226 


MY ROSES. 


evening, ma belle amie — victim of a virulent nostalgia?’* 
laughed Eugene, as he came forward to my couch. 

“ Did you not charge me, under ban of your displeasure, 
not to dare move an inch until your return?” I retorted, 
answering his gayety. 

“Yes, I did. But you ’ve been disobeying orders : there 
now — no denials ; I know it. Your cheeks are too red — 
your eyes are too bright to suit me — and, as I live ! I 
verily believe you ’ve been crying. Oh ! these demoiselles ! 
Would that I were dressed in a little of Sauvollee’s ‘brief 
authority,’ (I foresee it would indeed be very ‘ brief,’) — I 
would lecture you soundly, mademoiselle. 

* Mais, vertuhleu! 

What can one poor doctor do 

With demoiselles accustomed always to act comme on veut ? ’ ” 

His pleasantry did me good ; his cheerfulness was truly a 
fine tonic. He ran on, in his gay, good-humored way, evi- 
dently with the intention of cheering me up, and, as usual, 
he succeeded. It was some minutes before Coralie (who 
had left the room with Madame Lesueur, upon the doc- 
tor’s entrance,) returned. She was ready to leave, and I 
saw by her face, under the deep veil, that her adieus had 
been said. Eugene placed her in the carriage, and, return- 
ing, wrapped me from head to foot in a great shawl ; and, 
lifting me in his arms, bore me forth also. Thus I left, 
for the last time, that dungeon of souls — the “Maison des 
Bijoux.” But I had gained what I sought there : I had 
spoken the “ Open Sesame ” — and I carried my treasure 
forth with me I Just as Eugene bore me through the par- 
lor door, there came from the room above us a long, low 
wail that chilled my blood to the heart’s core. It was 
fearful — more like the cry of some wild, tortured animal, 
than the voice of a human being. “Said I not so?” re- 


MY ROSES. 


227 


marked the doctor to Madame, as he placed me in the car- 
riage. “ The fit is coming on already. Be sure to have 
two or three strong fellows up there to-night, or you will 
have trouble with him. Duplanche’s man is still there, I 
suppose ? 

“ Oui, monsieur^ Madame Lesueur came to the car- 
riage door, grasped my hand, uttered, in a hoarse whisper, 
“ May God bless you I ” and hastily retreated into the 
house. 

Now' Pierre, my man, home. Drive slowly and care- 
fully,’^ cried Dr. Dupont, as he took his place by my side, 
supporting me in as easy a position as possible during the 
drive. Not more than half an hour had elapsed when 
I was laid gently down upon the bed in my own dear 
chamber. Involuntarily, as the lights were brought in, 
I glanced at the two pictures opposite me. Both were 
thickly shrouded in black crape; and with a sigh of relief, 
I turned to Coralie, who sat on the bedside, and listened 
smilingly to the wondering exclamations and lamentations 
of my good Ninon over the “killed and murdered and 
malheuretise condition of her poor, dear mademoiselle.” 

It was with much regret I learned that my father had 
been worse during the day, and had inquired for me re- 
peatedly during my absence. I sent Eugene to him at 
once, and then, overcome by weariness, ere I was aware, 
fell away into a peaceful and refreshing sleep. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 

But soft ! behold ! Lo, where if comes again ! 

I ’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion I 
If thou hast any sound or use of voice, 

Speak to me. 

Hold, hold, my heart ; 

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old. 

But bear me stifiBy up ! Remember thee ? 

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 
In this distracted globe. Remember thee ? 

Hamlet. 

W EDNESDAY evening — and before the dawning of 
another day Sigismond would be at home. How 
intensely my heart longed for his coming ; and, oh ! how 
much I had to tell him ! How he would chafe, and chide 
me for my rashness ; and how I should triumph in retorting 
gayly upon him that, while he had been maturing and 
“ considering” the ways and means of Coralie’s restoration 
to her proper sphere, I had “ done the deed,” and she was 
safe — rescued and redeemed! How I should enjoy assur- 
ing him that I had accomplished the sacred and self-im- 
posed task — without him ! Yes — I meant to have a very 
pretty triumph. And, in advance, I took the liberty of 
smiling quietly to myself, as I lay there in the soft twilight, 
with Coralie caressing my wounded hand, when I thought 
of his parting words, and the air of grave decision with 
which he had said : 


228 


MY ROSES. 


229 


“You must curb your impatience, and keep quiet until 
my return. You could not go through with your role with- 
out me : strong and spirited as you are, dear Henriette, 
you have not strength and spirit sufficient for that. Now 
promise me, fleur-de-lis ! ” 

Men, (ordinarily,) I think, do not admire women of ac- 
tion. But, not being a man, (except upon extraordinary 
occasions,) I do. In general, men admire the pretty, pas- 
sive things who love them ; say yes or no, according to in- 
structions ; are much given to folding their white hands, 
and studying modestly the pattern of the carpet. To be 
sure, they are apt to scold the pauvre petites soundly for 
their inefficiency — after they make wives of them. Well 
— ainsi va le monde, and we will not attempt now to re- 
generate it, single-handed ! I cannot help believing, how- 
ever, that there is a sufficient inevitable passiveness in every 
W'oman’s lot; and, therefore, no necessity that any one 
should adopt passivity as a “profession.” If you consider 
it a weakness in me that I should feel quite elated at the 
news I had to tell Sigismond, you must pardon that weak- 
ness, and agree that, under the circumstances, it was “ hu- 
man nature ” so to feel. Notwithstanding his prediction, 
I had “ gone through with my role ” — and successfully. 
True, I had suffered much, (how he would grieve for that!) 
but I could bear it — even be grateful for it ; since my suf- 
ferings had endeared me to Coralie, when I most feared 
her loving nature would be wholly alienated. It was all 
for the best. My hand was growing better, and the long 
wound upon my shoulder and breast, though painful, was 
doing well : it did not altogether confine me to my cham- 
ber. Wrapped in a loose robe de chambre, and leaning on 
Ninette, I had that morning visited my father in his own 
apartments, and sat with him perhaps an hour. He re- 
20 


230 


MY ROSES. 


marked that I looked unusually pale and ill, and greatly 
lamented the delay in getting out of town. Of course, 
however, when I acknowledged that I was not feeling very 
well, he had no suspicion of the truth ; for nothing of my 
malaventures, or of Coralie’s entrance into our home as an 
inmate, had been communicated to him. Ninon alone was 
in my confidence — none else knew who Coralie really was ; 
the other servants, even Thomas, supposing that she was 
merely some young friend come for a “ visitation,” as I 
frequently had acquaintances visit me in that way since I 
became, to all intents and purposes, “mistress of the man- 
sion,” Eugene Dupont had called in the morning. He 
pronounced my wound “doing admirably,” but candidly 
confessed that he considered my father’s case a critical one ; 
adding that the disease baffled his skill — he really could 
make nothing of it. Evidently, Eugene was of the opinion 
that he had been called in too late to effect anything. 
Still, notwithstanding my fears for my father — in spite of 
intrusive misgivings which often troubled me, and de- 
spite my own pain, as I lay there in the deepening twi- 
light — safe at home — with Coralie bending over me, and 
the glad hope of Sigismond’s return glowing at my heart — I 
confess I gave way readily to smiles and pleasant thoughts. 
When I looked up into those glorious blue eyes, which 
were “ raining sweet influences ” upon me at that moment ; 
whenj[ thought of the fine, dark orbs that would, ere to- 
morrow’s dawning, meet mine in tenderest appreciating 
love, I forgot the wicked, subtle, cobra eyes of Berth§l, 
with their strange fire and their fierce threatenings ; I for- 
got that there was yet danger in him, and that the cold, 
questioning world — my “fashionable world ” — would 
soon be asking, “ Whence comes this lovely friend of our 
‘dear friend ’ Mademoiselle de Hauterive?” I looked at 
Coralie — I thought of Sigismond — and I was happy, sat- 


MY ROSES. 


231 


isfied, contented ; saying to myself, “ Sufficient unto the 
^ day is the evil thereof.” 

A delicious dreaminess stole over me as I lay there look- 
ing at Coralie, and thinking how like she was to my ideas 
of seraphic beauty. She sat upon the couch beside me, my 
hand, as usual, clasped in hers ; her eyes were fixed upon 
the far-away star of evening, which trembled and sparkled 
through the open casement opposite us. Her short, clus- 
tering curls were lit up by the last rays of fading sun-fires ; 
her delicate cheek had the soft flush of the sea-shell ; the 
white, loose robe flowed away from the full, rounded con- 
tour of her figure, and, in a singularly clear contralto, she 
was singing the Evening Hymn to the Virgin : 

“ Ave sanctissima^ 

We lift our souls to thee! 

Ora 'pro nobis^ 

’ Tis nightfall on the sea. 

Watch us, while shadows lie 
Far o’er the water’s shade ; 

Hear the heart’s lonely sigh — 

Thme, toOy hath bled I ” 

So sweetly soft, so pure, so saintly was the scene and song ; 
so lovely the hour, the star, and the singer ; surely it must be 
the spirit of Saint Cecilia herself, sending forth her soul 
into heaven upon the wings of song ! Ah ! what a pathos 
there was in that adjuration, “Hear the heart’s lonely 
sigh ; ” what an earnestness in the claim of companion- 
ship : “ Thine, too, hath bled ! ” My poor Coralie ! would 
she ever be able to forget ? Her red lip was just trembling 
over the last cadence, and the final words of this beautiful 
chant du soir, 

“ Ora, Mater, ora, 

Star of the deep,” 


232 


MY ROSES. 


when Ninette burst into the room, exclaiming, “ Oh ! 
Miss, can you come to master ? Thomas says he ^s dying ! ” 

God forgive me ! — and I here ! ” I cried, as I rose, and 
tottered toward her. “ I ’m coming — help me, girl ; no, 
tell Pierre to fly this instant for Dr. Dupont. I ’ll go to 
my father myself — run, child, and make haste back !” 

Cannot I help you ? cannot I do something f Let me 
go, Henri — dearest Henri,” pleaded Coralie. She called 
me “ Henri,” still. I remember it now, as though it hap- 
pened only yesterday. 

“Not now, my darling; not yet — my father never sees 
strangers there : you will see him when he grows better. 
But will you assist me to his door ? ” I added, for I felt so 
nervous, that it was with diflSculty I could stand at all. 
She placed her round, white arms about me, and, thus sup- 
ported, I hastened forward, as fast as my trembling limbs 
would permit, toward my father’s room. At the door Cor- 
alie left me, and I entered alone. Thomas was on the floor, 
supporting his master in his arms ; our poor invalid had 
fainted quite away. 

“ Lay him back in bed — can you lift him ? ” I asked, 
hurriedly, as I saw the position of aflairs. Thomas raised 
the attenuated form apparently with as much ease as he 
would have carried that of a child, and laid him gently 
back in his bed. 

“ He would get up. Miss,” explained the servant. “ He 
said young master would be home to-night, and you would 
all be going from town in a day or two ; and he mws’ get 
up and walk a little to ’custom himself to the exercise. 
He’d been lying abed quite too long already, he said. 
But, bless you. Miss,” continued the poor fellow, as his 
voice broke down to a tremulous and husky whisper, “bless 
you! Miss, he could nH walk a step. He just fell for- 
ward on the floor like a log. Miss — like a log. I riz him 


MY ROSES. 


233 


up ; and you see, Miss, he was mos’ gone — like a dead man 
mos’. Miss. Poor master ! I feared he ’ll never git up no 
more at all. What do you think, mistus?” and he looked 
eagerly into my face, as if to read there something of com- 
fort and hope. 

“ I think we must bestir ourselves, and that quickly — 
hoping for the best while we work. Get me some brandy,” 
I answered, as I busied myself applying restoratives. After 
half an hour of vigorous work, most of which had to be 
done by Thomas and Ninette, under my direction, I had 
the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing my patient’s eyes 
slowly and wearily unclose ; a slight tremor shook his 
whole frame ; then he looked up at me wistfully, and tried 
to speak. He could not articulate; I bent down, and, 
pressing my lips to his, said : ‘‘ Don’t try to talk now. 
You will be better presently. Here comes Eugene — he 
can do wonders, you know.” At the same time I heard 
footsteps on the gallery, which I knew were Eugene’s ; I 
heard also quite a bustle and commotion in the great hall 
below — or, perhaps, it seemed to me, a very unusual noise, 
as the house was now kept so quiet. Ninette had run down 
to the housekeeper’s room for articles we needed, and now 
returned. My heart gave a great bound. ‘‘ Is it your Mas’ 
Sigismond ? ” I asked, in a hurried whisper. 

“Oh! no, mademoiselle. The porters are bringing 
Mademoiselle Coralie’s trunks and things,” she replied in 
the same tone. “ The man they call Jean — he has his 
right arm in a sling — says that Madame Lesueur sent 
you word that she is going away soon, for the rest of the 
summer, and she wants Miss Coralie to stay with you till 
she comes back.” 

“ Ah ! yes — I understand that. Now make haste with 
the mustard. Give me the scissors — you are not quick 
enough.” Ninette laughed as she gently put aside my one 
20 * 


234 


MY ROSES. 


hand, and with deft fingers went on with her plasters. 
Just then Dr. Dupont entered. 

‘‘ You here ! ” he exclaimed, sotto voce, as he caught ray 
extended hand. (It was wonderful how much in requisi- 
tion seemed that one hand !) “ Why, this will never, never 

do ; you will be ‘ laid up ’ entirely. It is too much for you 
— quite too much.” 

“Never mind me, doctor; go to my father — try every- 
thing to raise him,” I whispered. His countenance grew 
exceedingly grave, as he bent over the sick man, and 
placed his fingers upon the feeble and fluttering pulse. 
Then he administered some medicine — continued our ef- 
forts to restore the circulation — and in about an hour my 
father appeared much relieved. He spoke to me feebly ; 
“ I am weak, my dear — very weak — I tried — ” 

“Yes — yes — 7non cher phre, I know it all. You are 
very tired, and cannot talk now. By-and-by you will tell 
me ; but if you could sleep now, it would be best.” 

He closed his eyes like a child, and after some fifteen or 
twenty minutes, I saw that he slept. I called Eugene’s 
attention to the fact. “ It is well,” he said ; “ the potion I 
gave has taken effect. Sleep is the very best medicine for 
him now.” 

“You think him very ill — dangerously ill ? ” 

“I will not conceal it from you, my friend — he is. It 
is my opinion that he will never be able to leave the city, 
as you contemplated.” 

“And how — what is the trouble? He has complained 
of no pain; and, until very lately, would not allow that he 
was ill at all.” 

“ He has felt pain, nevertheless. He is worn away by 
pain of some kind, mademoiselle. He has suffered in- 
tensely, I know — I can see this in its effects — still, he has 
complained but little, even to me,” replied the doctor. 


MY ROSES. 


236 


“But where is the disease — and what is it? You can 
tell me, Eugene,” I said, in a hurried whisper. 

“ Heart pain. Douleur du coeur, I think,” he uttered in 
a low voice ; then added, “ I confess to you frankly, as I 
did once before, that I do not really understand the case. 
So far as I can judge, the malady is a mental one — it has 
worn out the physical man. I can do little for him, be- 
cause I am unable to ‘ cleanse the bosom of that perilous 
stuff which weighs upon the heart.’ ” 

“ Oui dd ! It may be so — it may indeed be so,” I said, 
slowly, to myself. 

“ But now, ma chere amie,** continued Dr. Dupont, “ he 
is doing very well — much better than I anticipated when 
I first came in, I assure you. He will probably sleep some 
hours under the influence of the medicine I have given. 
I have found that he has been accustomed to heavy ano- 
dynes. Meanwhile, dear lady, you must not remain here. 
Remember that you too are upon my list of invalids.” 

“No,” I answered, half smiling, “ I am not an invalid. 
I shall have a comfortable sofa brought in, and watch by 
my father through the night. Sigismond will be here be- 
fore the day dawns — the boat comes in at four o’clock.” 

“ And what do you suppose Sauvoll^e will do when he 
finds that I have allowed this ? I wonder that a fever has 
not set in already from your wound — you are so restless ; 
nay, almost reckless,” expostulated Eugene. 

“ Oh ! you need not ‘ allow ’ me to do anything,” I re- 
plied. “ I am doing everything despite you — you under- 
stand ; and Sigismond cannot be ungenerous enough to 
attach any blame to you. He brought me up to have a 
‘constitution.’ You say people are hard to kill who are 
possessed of a strong ‘ will to live ; ’ and so I shall resist 
your ‘fever,’ monsieur le docteur. Here I am going to re- 
main, at all events : rest assured of that, mon ami.” I spoke 


236 


MY ROSES. 


cheerfully, almost gayly, though, Heaven knows, my heart 
.was sad enough. But I would not give up ; I would not 
let him see how nervous and shaken in spirit I really felt, 
lest he should order me off to my room immediately, and 
leave me no appeal. 

“ At least retire now, for an hour or two,” urged Eugene. 
“I would insist upon taking your place, but I am com- 
pelled to go round to Tchoupitoulas Street, to see a bad 
case. They sent for me just as Pierre came into my office. 
Were it not for this, I would remain myself.” 

“ Oh, I shall do very well. Thomas and Ninon are both 
with me; I can arouse them at any moment. But you 
must come again as soon as you can get away. Come be- 
fore morning, if you can.” 

“ I shall do so, certainly. And now, hon soir for a few 
hours. Have your sofa brought in, since you will, and then 
go to sleep on it — mind that. Au revoir and I was left 
to myself. 

In a few minutes I had everything arranged. Thomas 
and Ninon brought in a light sofa, and set it down softly, 
near my father’s bed. He still slept — so still, that at times 
I could scarce discover that he breathed at all. I opened 
the Venetian doors, to allow the air to enter — for the night 
was close and sultry — adjusted the light properly, drew 
the filmy lace curtains carefully round the sleeper, then 
laid myself down among the pillows on my sofa. Some 
time passed. Everything seemed so calm and peaceful, and 
my father slept so well, that I dismissed Ninette to her 
slumbers, and told Thomas that he might also retire to the 
anteroom adjoining, where he always slept, that he might 
be near his master. Then I was left alone. All was still 
as death in the chamber, and nothing could be heard from 
without, save now and then a distant rumbling of wheels, 
or a soft rustle, as the light breeze occasionally whispered 


MY ROSES. 


237 


through the vines that partially latticed the gallery. I lay 
with half-closed eyes, my head pillowed upon the arm of 
the sofa, and facing the doors that opened on the gallery. 
I did not feel at all like sleeping — I was thinking. I was 
“putting this and that together,” as people say. My 
thoughts intruded upon forbidden ground, perhaps; but 
then they were only my own thoughts, and went no farther. 
A woman may think, I suppose ; more especially, if she 
keeps her “thinkings” to herself. Suddenly, I became 
aware that a white figure stood just beyond the doorway, 
in the half-gloom without, looking in upon me. One bound 
— awkward enough, I imagine, but stronger, perhaps, than 
might have been anticipated from my state of health — 
brought me to my feet in the middle of the floor. I ad- 
vanced — the figure advanced also out of the shadow, and 
we met upon the threshold. Two arms went round me — 
it was Coralie. 

“ Why, Henri ! did I startle you ? ” she whispered. “ I 
did not mean it. But I cannot sleep, and I felt impelled 
to come to you. See this! Madame sent it with my 
trunks and packages.” And she held up that broken 
picture, wrapped in the letter. 

“Not now — not now I” I shivered, as I hid my face on 
her shoulder. “ I cannot look at them just now I ” 

“I have looked at them until they have ‘ murdered sleep * 
for me,” she said, softly ; “and I felt as though I must come 
to you. Did you not call me?” 

“No, cUre petite; but I was thinking strongly of you, 
and of this very picture and letter. I am glad Madame 
sent them to you.” 

“Yes — because they are mine. You were thinking of 
them and me, and so drew me to you. Your thoughts 
called me, and I came. Now that I am here, will you not 


238 


MY KOSES. 


allow me to watch awhile, until you lie down and take some 
rest? You need it sadly, dearest Henri.” 

“;N^o — no; I don’t wish to sleep. Hark! what hour is 
that?” We listened — the hall clock struck eleven. The 
house and the night were so still that the bell-like tones of 
the clock sounded to me like an alarum. “ What a noise 
that was I When that clock strikes twelve, it will be cer- 
tain to awaken my father,” I said. “ I must go down and 
stop it.” 

“ Well, if you think it necessary ; and I will watch here 
till your return,” said Coralie. “But no — you cannot get 
up and down stairs well : let me go — I can do it.” 

“ No, ma chere; thank you. I think I understand the 
old timepiece better than you. I will waken Ninon, and 
she can assist me. Step in to my sofa, there, and wait for 
me ; I shall be gone only a few moments. Is there a light 
in my room ?” 

“ Yes — on the table. I left it there, hoping that I might 
induce you to go and lie down for a while in your own 
bed.” . , 

“ I shall be back directly,” I said, as I went out ; and she 
glided noiselessly to the sofa which I had quitted. 

I crept along the gallery and through the hall to my 
own chamber. The light was burning on the console. I 
took it up, and went into the dressing-room to waken 
Ninette. The girl, wearied out with much anxiety and 
waiting on me, lay coiled up on her little couch, soundly 
sleeping. She had not undressed, expecting to be called at 
any time. I really had not the heart to arouse her from 
so sweet a sleep. “ Why, I can just as well go down my- 
self,” I muttered. “ It would be needless to disturb the 
poor thing ; she is tired. I can lean on the balustrade, and 
creep up and down well enough.” 

I took up my light, then, and went to the landing. The 


MY ROSES. 


239 


hall-lamp, with its rose-glow, had gone out. Why in the 
world has Pierre turned off the gas so early?” I exclaimed, 
pettishly ; “ when he knows that his young master is to be 
home to-night, too. I must see to this.” Then down I 
crept, holding by the balustrade, until I reached the hall 
below. No sound save the loud, persistent ticking of the 
large clock. I stopped it ; and then it occurred to me that 
the gas ought to be lighted again immediately ; Eugene 
might come in at any time. I had a candle, and thought 
I could do it myself. The rose-colored globe hung above 
my head, but by pushing a large chair that stood near di- 
rectly under it, I could manage to reach it, I thought, quite 
well. With some difficulty I accomplished this ; with 
more, I had clambered into the chair, and stood reaching 
up to turn on the gas, when — God of heaven ! the terrible, 
tortured, unearthly shriek that burst above me ! Another I 
and yet another ! They froze the very life-blood in my 
veins. I reeled — fell. The light dropped from my nerveless 
hand — went out — and I lay there, prone upon the floor, 
and in utter darkness. Another, and yet another of those 
soul-harrowing cries from above — and I staggered to my 
feet. How I got up stairs again I never knew ; frenzy 
seemed to drive me forward. In the gallery I was caught 
up by the trembling and breathless Ninette, whose teeth 
chattered as she exclaimed : 

“Holy Mother of Christ! did you hear it. Miss?” 

“What — what is it?” I gasped. 

“ Saints help us ! your father is seeing of the spirits 1 ” 
uttered the girl. I had reached the door of his room, and 
— God aid us! — what a sight presented itself to my 
shocked senses ! Coralie, pale as ashes, stood cowering 
amid the gossamer curtains at the foot of the bed, seem- 
ingly deprived of all life and volition by the force of some 
frightful fascination ; my father sitting bolt upright in 


240 


MY ROSES. 


the bed, rigid as stone, his hands flung wildly out, as if to 
fend off* some horrible spectre, his eyes glaring with the 
unnatural look of a dumb animal mad with terror. Oh ! 
my stricken soul! ’twas horrible — horrible! 

The whole household, awakened and alarmed by those 
terrible cries, was hastening to the spot. Breaking through 
the terrified servants, I threw myself on the bed beside my 
father, wound my arms around him, and endeavored to 
soothe and gently force him back to his pillows. “ Take 
her away — take her away — in the name of God!” he 
shivered, as he put those stifiTened, feeble arms about my 
neck, and sank back, shuddering, in my embrace. 

“ Coralie, my darling, come to me — come away,” I said, 
in as calm a voice as I could command. 

Coralie! Coralie!” he shrieked again. “You know 
the ghost, then — you know she has come up from the dead 
to curse me when I ’m dying. Coralie ? yes — it is she — ' 
I knew it ! She has come to curse me with the curse of 
the dead, and (here his whole frame shook, and his face 
grew livid) with the curse of the — betrayed ! ” 

Oh ! that a just God could have spared me this hour ! 
It flashed over me in an instant again — the remembrance 
of that dreadful presentiment which had so shaken my 
soul when I cowered down and hid my face from the crape- 
shrouded picture of my father which hung in my sleeping- 
chamber. I saw it all in a moment — it struck my brain 
like a lightning flash ! My fearful conjecturings, when I 
lay “putting this and that together,” had proved true. I 
knew now, by a terrible, irresistible intuition, the original 
of that little broken picture — the writer of that mutilated 
letter ! My own father lay there before me, branded as the 
betrayer of innocence — the murderer of his victim — and 
Coralie his child ! My brain reeled with this stunning con- 
viction ; and yet I hastened to confirm it. Taking up 


MY ROSES. 


241 


Coralie’s icy hand, I laid it on his forehead, saying, in low, 
faltering tones, “ It is no spirit, my father ; it is flesh and 
blood. Your flesh and blood — and mine ! ” 

His eyes were strained and wild, his lips quivering con- 
vulsively, his face ashen as the clay. “Who — who is it?” 
he gasped, in a dazed, bewildered way. I smoothed his 
brow with my single hand, and laid him back on the pil- 
lows. Coralie had moved away at my call, from the foot 
of the bed. I gave him a stimulant, and dismissed all the 
wondering servants who stood at the door, with the excep- 
tion of Thomas and Ninon ; then I sat down beside him 
on the bed, and as briefly and quietly as possible made him 
understand Coralie’s history, and why she was here in our 
house. His conscience helped him to comprehend my 
rather hurried and disjointed narrative. I had scarcely 
finished, when he stretched forth eagerly his feeble arms, 
exclaiming, “ My Coralie ! my child ! ” The white, rigid 
figure standing near me fell forward into those arms ; the 
marble face, and the bright head, with its curls of gold, 
lay buried on the bosom of her father, and mine ! When 
at last I raised her up, her eyes wore a still, stony look, that 
appalled me. I knew that though overpowered by the first 
recognition of father's love^ the “still, small voice” of a 
mother's m'ongs was already at work in her heart. I threw 
my arms around her neck, pressed a long and loving kiss 
upon her cold lips, and whispered, “My darling — my sis- 
ter! ” Ah ! then the stony spell was broken — then gushed 
the soft, sweet rain of tears, and our hearts in that moment 
“grew together” in a holy union, nevermore to be sundered 
— in a glowing love, never, never to be lost. Together we 
stood beside our dying father, and, with a sudden start of 
recollection, Coralie held out to him the little picture and 
letter, which had remained all this time in her clenched 
hand. He grasped them eagerly, though I had put out my 
21 


242 


MY ROSES. 


hand to prevent it, fearing it would be too much for him 
in his present state. But he had quickly grasped those 
relics of a bygone day, and as his straining eyes devoured 

them, I saw that he was terribly shaken. The light fell 
upon them full and soft ; and his hand shook so that he 
could not have studied them had they been strange to him. 
But he knew them far too well to make that necessary. 

“ They are mine” he uttered, tremulously, after a long, 
long pause. “Thomas!” — and his faithful servitor came 
and leaned a moment over him — “bring me the ebony 
box — Thomas! — and get the little casket for me.” 

Thomas went back to a large old-fashioned armoire, or 
secretary, which stood in one corner of the apartment ; from 
this he brought an octagonal ebony box, inlaid with pearl, 
and placed it on the table. Then going to his master 
again, he bent over him, and took from his neck a slender 
golden chain, to which was attached a delicate key. With 
this he opened the box, and taking thence a beautiful little 
silver ^crire, handed it to his master. My father raised the 
lid, and a moment after laid in my hand another little pic- 
ture and a piece of folded paper. I took up both pictures 
and held them to the light, Coralie looking on with me. 
They were halves of the same double locket — there was 
the broken hinge, the spring, the wreath of forget-me-nots 
on each; in the one we had not heretofore seen was an 
angel face — the image of my Coralie; and on the back 
was inscribed, in letters similar to those upon the other 
picture, “Coralie, June 1st, 1834.” The loop was at- 
tached to this half of the medallion, and as I placed them 
together, the tiny spring closed with a soft click, as it 
doubtless had been used to do in days gone by. These, 

then, were the semblances of our father and of Coralie’s 
mother. When these pictures were taken, where was 
my own mother, the fair and fragile beauty, Pauline de 


MY ROSES. 


243 




Hauterive ? This “ June 1834,” was the day of her 
death : the day of my sister Coralie’s birth. Alas for 
our beautiful mothers, both had their wrongs, and both 
were dead under them ! I will not say that this thought 
did not awaken in my soul a sudden feeling of bitterness 
toward the man who had wronged them both ; no, I felt for 
a moment intense bitterness toward thatd3dng man — may 
Heaven pardon me! My thoughts were all of the two 
bright young lives, wrecked forever by the misdeeds of one 
who had long survived them. I knew not, then, how he 
had also made shipwreck of his own life, repenting through 
the tortures of desert years. 

Mechanically I was placing the two pieces of paper to- 
gether, in the same manner as the pictures. My father was 
gazing steadfastly at me, as though he would read my very 
soul. I am quite sure that he divined my feelings toward 
him. 

“ Read it,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. I placed the 
pieces together — it was the same thick vellum, with an 
embossed border — pieces of the same sheet they were — 
and the letter they formed ran thus : 


*^Keep the enclos 
until I can come 
you. Our child 
hisses for her. Still 
of my soul ; for 
in you. I’ll prove it 
Trust — and await 
Devoted 


edf my loved Goralie^ 
with full power to claim 
! I give you a thousand 
believe the deep devotion 
my whole soul is centred 
my own one — soonj very soon, 
me this evening, 
ly evermore 

Your Henri.” 


Coralie was reading it with me, her head bowed and 
both hands grasping my arm. “ Surely — surely, he must 


244 


MY ROSES. 


have loved her well,” she whispered, in a scarcely audible . 
voice, as I folded up the papers. I laid them down, took 
her hand in mine, and pressed it fervently. She was not 
to blame if my mother was neglected ; there could be no 
bitterness in my heart toward her. If the dying man who 
was lying there beside us had wronged my mother, he had 
still more deeply wronged hers ; and I could feel for her 
even as I felt for myself. The old pride, so strong within 
me, struggled up then against that man, though I strove 
hard to crush it down — though I strove to master myself, 
and regard him, not as the impetuous, passionate, selfish 
man, who had bowed others to his will, but as the enfee- 
bled, repentant, and dying father, who, if he could^ would 
now right all the wrongs he had committed. Alas ! alas ! 
that there should be on earth no restitution — no righting 
of such wrongs as these ! Alas ! that of such wrong as he 
had wrought, the consequences should be inevitable, and 
also irremediable ! There was a bitter feeling at my heart 

— a burning, gnawing pain. I would have given worlds to 
weep, but tears were now denied me. Ah ! how wretched, 
how very wretched was this humiliating revelation of my 
mother as a wronged, neglected, and deserted wife ! And 
I had loved — had longed for the affection of this man, 
who had thus wronged and deserted her ! 

Hark ! that was a ring at the door-bell : Eugene had 
come. I raised myself, and looked around to see if any- 
thing must be arranged before his entrance. There was 
quite a bustle in the hall below. Soon I heard a swift, 
strong step through the upper hall and along the gallery 

— that step I knew so well. It was not Eugene’s. I flew 
toward the open door, and sank, quite overpowered at last, 
upon the strong heart of Sigismond ! 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


TELLE VIE, TELLE MORT. 

Oh, June-day friend, that helps me now at night, 

When June is over! 

Could I see his face, 

I wept so ? Did I drop against his breast, 

Or did his arms constrain me ? Were my cheeks 
Hot, overflooded with my tears, or his ? 

And which of our two large, explosive hearts 
So shook me ? That, I know not. 

Mrs. Browning. 

I ’ve seen a thousand horrid shapes, begot of fierce extremes 
Of fever ; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams — 
Hyenas and blood-loving bats, and apes with hateful stare — 

Pale, sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from the tombs — 

All phantasies and images, that flit in midnight glooms. 

Hood. 

I T ‘Were idle now to dwell at length upon the many con- 
flicting feelings which possessed us by turns on that 
eventful night of Wednesday, 16th of June, 1852. It were 
idle now to recall in detail my emotions upon the ac- 
knowledgment of Coralie as my sister, or my joy at the 
return of Sigismond, my “ good genius.” I must not at 
present deal so much with feelings as with facts. It was a 
moment of blissful rest, of encouragement, and of consola- 
tion to me — the moment when I lay folded to the strong, 
throbbing heart of mon hon ami; when I felt those pro- 
tecting arms encircle me again ; when I heard the deep and- 
mellow voice once more murmur, lovingly, M’ amour I 
Vie de mon codur I Dieu vous benisse ! ” 

21 * 


245 


246 


MY ROSES. 


Nor was I at all surprised to find, now that the necessity 
for my standing and acting alone had departed, how all 
my woman’s nature went forth to him in a gush of glad 
and grateful dependence ; nor (you see I am not ashamed 
to confess it !) how very, very sweet was that consciousness 
of dependence and rest to my tired heart. I, who before 
his coming felt weighed down by conflicting emotions — 
mentally stunned into a state plus mort que vif, as it were 
— now came back to myself, with the added strength of 
another self ; as though I had received from the magnetic 
clasp of his hand and pressure of his lip the stimulus of 
some subtle essence de la vie. 

I led him in to my father’s bedside, and the sudden 
shade which passed upon his countenance revealed at once 
the shock he experienced upon witnessing the great change 
which had taken place during his absence. The decline 
had really not been so rapid as it appeared, because my 
father possessed a strong and determined will^ which kept 
him up until nature was exhausted, and he was compelled 
to succumb. By strong eflTorts of will he had always braced 
himself to the task of meeting us of late, and he was really 
weak and ill long before we discovered it. But when he 
was no longer able to make these eflbrts — when he was 
compelled to acknowledge his illness — he sank rapidly, 
and we could see it. The first greetings interchanged be- 
tween Sigismond and my father, the former turned to Cor- 
al ie with a surprise only modified by courtesy. Certainly 
he had no idea of finding her domesticated in our home on 
his return. She stood, like a snow image, at the head of 
the bed, holding her father’s thin hand, the cloud-like cur- 
tains falling at her back, and half-veiling the beautiful 
head, with all its gold “abandonment of curls.” She was 
pale, still, and self-centred. The sweet face wore an ex- 
pression of deepest melancholy, 


MY ROSES. 


247 


“ Receive her as ray daughter, Monsieur Sauvoll4e,” said 
my father, in a feeble voice. Sigismond did not start as 
she gave him her hand ; evidently, he did not seize upon 
the true meaning of my father’s words. As he cordially 
welcomed the lovely, half-shrinking girl to the home in 
which he had so long dwelt as a loved and honored son, I 
saw that he had no conception of the real purport of the 
remark. He saw in Coralie only the blameless young 
wanderer reinstated in her proper sphere, and installed in 
our home as its adopted daughter ; but that she was such 
in reality, he did not then dream. Even to me, it seemed 
scarcely more than a dream — a vision of some hour of 
glamour, from which I should soon awake, finding it flown 
forever, leaving “not a wreck behind.” Only a fortnight 
had elapsed since the day we first saw Coralie’s semblance 
at Moisinett’s rooms ; and now she was here at ray side, the 
acknowledged daughter of my own father! What fan- 
tasies of fate had held possession of me during that fierce 
fortnight! Sigismond was all anxiety to hear how I had 
won my protegee — I could see that — while he gave my 
father brief assurances that during his tour he had obeyed 
instructions, and arranged all business affairs satisfactorily : 
the state of the invalid did not admit of his going into de- 
tails. I sat on the sofa, facing him, as he spoke to my 
father ; suddenly he came to me, and said, in a low tone, 
“You are very pale; you look almost ill. What is it, 
fleur-de-lis f Are you weary ? I am as anxious to talk to 
you as I have been to meet you, but I will not ask any in- 
formation to-night ; you seem so tired. I am in more than 
two hours earlier than I expected — the ‘Gipsy’ made a 
good run down — it was not two o’clock when I came up. 
If you will retire now with your friend, I will watch here 
until morning. Will you go, ‘ heart’s-ease ? ’ You need 
rest, I am sure.” 


248 


MY BOSES. 


I shook my head. “ Then,” he asked, “ will you come 
with me for a few minutes to the gallery ? ” I looked at 
Coralie. “Go — I will remain here,” she said, in a whis- 
per. The invalid was lying quite still, his eyes closed ; I 
know not whether or not he slept. I rose softly and went 
with Sigismond. “ 1 have been literally ‘perishing ’ to talk 
to you. How did it all come about ? In your letters you 
never said a word of Coralie’s being here, and my astonish- 
ment at seeing her almost upset my politeness,” said he, as 
I sat down on the long settee which stood between the col- 
umns, in front of my father’s room. “And what a marked 
change in your father! — how did this happen? Dut-il 
m’en couter la vie, I cannot comprehend what you have all 
been doing in my absence,” he added, seating himself by 
my side. Briefly then I ran over the rapid succession of 
incidents which had resulted in the removal of Coralie to 
our house. My recital was succinct and hurried ; there 
was nothing in it of the triumph and self-gratulation with 
which I had imagined I would relate it to him. There was 
only a grateful gladness that she was saved, and that she 
was now our own, mingled with a sweet content that he was 
here when we so greatly needed him. When I told him of 
my own suffering, his arms — those resolute, protecting 
arms — stole round me, as if to ward ofi* even the remem- 
brance of dangers past. When I spoke of Berthel, I could 
hear his quickened breathing, and now and then a deep 
exclamation through his set teeth : when I mentioned, with 
a shudder, how nearly that keen knife came to striking 
home to ray heart, he pressed me closer to him, with a low 
moan of irrepressible agony — his head was bowed to mine, 
he gave way utterly, and great sobs shook the strong man, 
as though he had been but a child. Otherwise he was 
silent, for language had no words to shadow forth the surge 
and swell of his soul. It was all so surprising, so strange. 


MY ROSES. 


249 


and so terrible to him — the thought of what I had gone 
through — that he was completely overcome. I could not 
tell what feeling was regnant in the conflicting chaos of 
emotion which swept over him. It is doubtful if he could 
have told himself ; for, notwithstanding his usual outward 
calm, his passions were strong, and his feelings profound. 
He had sunk to his knee beside me ; my right arm was 
round his neck as he knelt ; I laid my hand upon his face 
— it was wet with tears. We read much of the pathos, 
the soul-subduing influence which exists in woman’s tears. 
Far more touching to the sight and sense, I think, are the 
heart-wrung tears a strong man weeps. There is, indeed, 
something of power in pathos, when we see tho eye which 
glittered like a “sharp, sunlit sword,” melting suddenly, 
and brimful of heart-dew ; and that is a subduing influ- 
ence, in truth, which lays the calm nobility of a man’s 
nature, his high, generous temper, and his leonine courage, 
all at the feet of a tender and tearful grief. How well he 
loved me ! I do not say that I was more worthy than any 
other ; I was simply “ all the world” to him. I knew even 
then that 

“A man may love a woman perfectly, 

And yet by no means ignorantly maintain 
A thousand women have not larger eyes ; 

Enough that she alone has looked at him 

With eyes that, large or small, have won his soul.” 

I had finished my relation but a minute or two, when, 
in the deep silence that followed, I again heard steps ap- 
proaching through the upper hall. Pierre appeared on the 
gallery with a light, and behind him came Eugene. We 
rose to meet him. Sigismond grasped both hands of 
his friend, exclaiming, “ How can I ever sufficiently thank 
you?” Eugene understood him, and answered, with a 


250 


MY ROSES. 


smile, “ By remaining at home hereafter, and attending 
une helle demoiselle, who is slightly self-willed, especially 
when indulging an odd passion which she pour faire 
le monsieur. I confess to a deep admiration for this young 
gentleman, au prmtemps de ses jours — a cavalier du bon ton 
— not the slightest air de province about him ; yet I have 
to acknowledge that he has given me any amount of fever- 
ish anxiety. He is as reckless as he is self-willed. Belle 
amie,” he added, turning to me, “ I now resign you to your 
proper guardian, who, if he possesses only one-half the dis- 
cretion and authority I give him credit for, will dismiss you 
to your room at once. But,” and he dropped his gay, ban- 
tering tone suddenly, “what of my patient — your father?” 
I pointed through the open doorway. Coralie still sat on 
the bedside, at my father’s pillow, and his position was 
unchanged, save that his face was turned more toward her. 

“Sleeping?” asked Eugene. 

“ I think so ; and yet I scarcely dare hope that it is a 
natural sleep. He is utterly exhausted by emotion — quite 
worn away — ” I could say no more. 

“Yes,” remarked the doctor, “you are right. His life 
ne tient plus qu’d un Jil — a mere thread, which may be 
broken by a breath. Do you recognize this? Madame 
Lesueur sent it to you ; and that imperious-looking sultana 
whom she called Marguerite sent this.” He handed me 
two packages. 

Wonderingly I opened first Marguerite’s — it contained 
the two pictures, one of herself and one of Coralie, which 
had first attracted our attention at Moisinett’s gallery. 
On a small slip of paper between them was written four 
words: “Keep until called for.” I opened the second 
paper — it contained my watch and chain. Eugene, antici- 
pating my surprised inquiries, said, “Madame Lesueur sent 
it J ules Berthel died at her house about an hour since.” 


MY ROSES. 


251 


“ Jules Berth^l — dead / ” I uttered. 

“How came it? Was it — the effect — ” Here Sigismond 
looked at me and hesitated. He would not risk wounding 
my feelings by finishing the question. 

“ Oh ! Eugene ! ” I broke forth, “ you will not say it ! It 
was not the effect of that pistol-shot ! ” 

“ Calm yourself, helle amie — I will be candid,” he re- 
plied, slowly, and as if considering his words. “The shot 
did not kill him ; that is to say, it could not have killed 
him of itself. It is useless to deny, however, that it hast- 
ened his death. And, I must say, you were altogether jus- 
tifiable in giving him the shot, even had it proved imme- 
diately fatal. Berthel has been his own worst enemy — 
his career of dissipation commenced three years ago. For 
some time he was upheld by his family, but for a year, at 
least, he has been going down rapidly, killing himself by 
degrees daily ; and my only wonder is that he has not suc- 
ceeded in completing the work long ere this. You may 
remember that when we left the ‘Maison des Bijoux’ on 
Tuesday evening, I told the Madame that her guest would 
soon be deep in delirium tremens. It came on before mid- 
night, and since that time he has been in inexpressible tor- 
tures.” 

“Did you go there to see him, yourself?” I asked. 

“Yes; I left here to visit a man in Tchoupitoulas Street. 
I had not reached my patient before a messenger from 
Duplanche followed me — summoning me to M. Berthel. 
Just as soon as I could leave, I obeyed the call. I found 
M. Berthel a dying man. The deserted house was filled 
with his shrieks and ravings. The room which he had oc- 
cupied above-stairs was close and small, and Duplanche 
had had him removed — carried down stairs to that large 
apartment which they call the ‘ salon* His bed stood in 
the middle of the room, and three stout fellows were hold- 


252 


MY ROSES. 


ing him down upon it when I entered. His groans, curses, 
and blasphemous ribaldry made me shiver, accustomed as 
I am to such scenes. All the thousand spectres of that 
awful malady were about him, and his sufferings were 
frightful. I have seen a score of such cases, but his ex- 
ceeded in intense agony anything that I have ever wit- 
nessed. The contrast between his condition and the bril- 
liant-looking pleasure-saloon wher^ he lay, was a lesson in 
itself — with a weight of meaning in it sufficient to strike 
the most reckless and conscience-seared of men. 

“‘jFew d^enferf’ he exclaimed, as soon as his wild eyes 
fell upon me. ‘ Donnez moi de Veau de vie. This it is — 
mourir de soif ; this it is — bruler vif! It is not well sejeter 
dmis le feu, pour Writer la fmnee, ma belle ange dechu ! But 
I killed her — killed her, veuille Dieu — veuille le diablel* 
^e was referring to you then, I am confident. I shall 
never forget the horrid cry with which he caught up a 
drinking-glass half-full of brandy, which Duplanche’s man 
handed him, and ere his keepers were aware of his intent, 
flung it into a costly mirror directly opposite, shrieking 
that it was filled with grinning devils, and he would give 
them some of the hell-broth from which he was burning 
alive. His terrors of the apes and serpents, which he in- 
sisted were gliding in crowds over his bed, was intense and 
most pitiable. He would shout for brandy to set them 
aflame; and while the foam dropped in gouts from his 
jaws, he would gnash his teeth and snap at his keepers like 
some rabid creature in the last stages of canine madness. 
At last the final struggle came, when he seemed to have 
forgotten persons, and gave no sign that he recognized any 
of us. He only said, as if groping in thick gloom, ‘Plonge 
dam le t^nebr^ ! ’ and the vexed spirit went out, in truth, 
upon ‘ the unknown Dark.’ ” 


MY ROSES. 


253 


“ Had he no friend near — none of his family ? ” asked 
Sigismond. 

“ Not one. His father had been sent for, but did not 
reach the house until all was over — and that was best. 
Think of such a sight for a father’s love — a parent’s pride, 
to witness ! Ah ! Sauvollee, it was horrible. I cannot ex- 
press to you my feelings at seeing a human creature dying 
in such a state ; the memory of it will haunt me forever.” 

“You spoke of the deserted house: is Marguerite still 
there?” I inquired. 

“ I presume so ; though I only saw her for a moment. 
When I came out of the ‘ salon, ^ she was standing at the 
door of the parlor — the roomi in which you were lying 
when I was called in, on Tuesday morning. She advanced 
and placed that package in my hand, with the request that 
I should deliver it to you — then, without even a ^hon 
soir,’ retired and shut the door. Madame Lesueur came 
into the * salon’ after Duplaiiche announced to her that M. 
BerthH was dead. She took possession of your watch when 
he was removed from the room above-stairs — and brought 
it to me as soon as she received the news of his death.” 

“Does she propose leaving that place?” questioned 
Sigismond. 

“I believe she thinks of going away after Berth el’s body 
has been removed. The inmates of the house seemed to be 
all flown, like summer birds before the autumn storm.” 

“ You saw the father of M. Berthel ? ” 

“Only for a few moments — he had just arrived. He 
will take home the remains of his son on to-morrow even- 
ing’s boat — at least, so I understood,” answered Dr. Du- 
pont. 

“ What a burden for a father to bear to his home,” I 
uttered. “ Telle vie, telle mort — ” 

22 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DEATH. 

Pauline — Pauline ! 

The grass upon her grave is green; 

’T is drear, and desolate to-day 
. As the sad heart that could not pray 
For the dead hopes that on it lay — 

Pauline — Pauline ! 

Mary E, Bryan. 

She sleeps that calm and pleasant sleep 
For which the weary pant in vain, 

And where the dews of summer weep 
I may not weep again — 

Ah ! never, never on her grave 
Shall I behold the wild flower wave ! 

Age sits upon my breast and brain, 

My spirit fades before its time. 

But — I am all thine own again. 

Lost life -star of my early prime: 

Oh ! for a refuge and a home 
With thee, dead Beauty, in the tomb! 

Old Song. 

I HAD no time to finish that sentence reflecting upon a 
foe whose enmity was now forever past ; for an excla- 
mation of terror from Coralie within, recalled us to the 
present. Sigismond sprang to his feet, lifted me, and we 
hurried in. One glance at my father confirmed my worst 
fears. The stillness, which might have been mistaken for 
slumber, was rather utter exhaustion. In his enfeebled, 

254 


MY ROSES. 


255 


helpless state, the terrible excitement consequent upon the 
appearance of Coralie — his wild thoughts at first impress- 
ing upon him the idea that it was the spirit of her whom 
he had betrayed — and then the recognition of his long- 
lost child, had been too much for him. He was sinking 
rapidly — his hours, nay, his moments, were numbered. 

“ Give him stimulants — it is all we can do,” said Eu- 
gene, handing me a glass which he had quickly prepared 
— for at a glance he saw that a few hours, at most, were 
all he could promise the patient. Sigismond upheld my 
father in his arms, while I gave him the potion. He looked 
up at us appealingly, and feebly taking my wounded hand, 
strove to place it in that of Coralie, who stood beside me. 
She took mine in both hers, placed her tremulous lips upon 
it, and we stood thus linked together by his side. He was 
striving to speak to us — and I will endeavor to give the 
substance of that feeble, faltering, and disjointed utterance. 
At times his slow words, always spoken with an effort, 
would cease altogether; then he would motion to me, and 
again I would give him the stimulant. 

“ It is well,” he said, in that painful, broken way ; and 
regarding us both with eyes from which the light of life 
was fast fading. “ It is well — you will love one another. 
Henriette, my noble child, you have done all that earthly 
power can do to redeem the consequences of your father’s 
crime. Alas! that it could not all be redeemed! Here 
are my children — but where is my wife, the fair and fra- 
gile Pauline? Where my first, my dearest love, the beau- 
tiful Coralie ? Gone — both long since gone ! And where 
are my own weary, wasted years — my lifetime of remorse 
and still despair ? Almost gone also — and were it not for 
the unknown hereafter, I could thank God that it is so 
nearly gone. My moments grow brief, my children, and 
it is well that I have but few words to say. As regards 


256 


MY ROSES. 


the things of this world, I leave you both amply provided 
for. My will — made at least two years ago — devises all 
properties to you, my eldest daughter and rightful heir ; 
but I am persuaded that the sister for whose sake you 
have dared and suffered so much, will be well provided 
for and amply dowered by you. I am thankful to know 
this ; because, in consideration of the deep wrongs of both 
your mothers, this dying hour would be to me a thousand 
times more bitter, did I leave their children in penury and 
obscurity to battle with the world. A few words as re- 
gards those mothers, that you may learn how wronged, 
and how innocent they were — for I — I alone — am guilty. 
I was an only son — a wild and wilful youth ; and, my 
mother dying in my infancy, I was brought up by an in- 
dulgent father. On arriving at my majority, I found that 
my father’s estate had melted away under my reckless dis- 
sipations, and needed to be replenished. My father urged 
this necessity, and, wayward as I was — this was one point 
upon which I could agree with him — I must have money. 
Life was nothing to me without it. The means of replen- 
ishing my almost exhausted coffers lay within my reach. 
Pauline d’Herbelot, our neighbor’s only daughter, was the 
heiress of great wealth ; she was very young, of a frail, 
fairy-like beauty — and she loved me. There was but one 
barrier in the way of our union : with the headlong pas- 
sion of my hot-hearted youth I already loved another — 
Coralie Eslington, the lovely daughter of an English widow, 
residing near Baton Rouge. I have no time now, my 
children, to enter into details — suffice it, that I married 
Pauline publicly — and, some time afterward, married the 
woman I loved — privately. You will understand that 
this marriage was only intended to deceive her — it was a 
mock marriage, and, of course, an illegal one ; but it de- 
ceived my trusting victim — she believed herself in reality 


MY ROSES. 


257 


my lawful wife. The seclusion in which she and her mother 
lived, favored my schemes. I resided at that time with 
my wife — Pauline — at our pleasant villa on the banks 
of the Mississippi, in the parish of Ascencion ; but ‘busi- 
ness ’ often compelled me to visit Baton Rouge. I had a 
confidential servant, Manuel, whom I brought from New 
Orleans — he had something of Spanish or Mexican blood 
in his veins. This servant passed back and forth between 
Coralie and myself, as a courier, for I would trust no 
communications to the post. Nearly three years had passed 
away since my marriage with Pauline, in which no suspi- 
cion of my treachery seemed ever to disturb her peace of 
mind. As to Coralie, whom I had afterward betrayed — 
her trust in me was perfect. I treated Pauline with con- 
sideration, was courteous and attentive to her as my wife — 
my conscience compelled me to it ; but my fair, English 
rose was loved with a deep and passionate tenderness, and 
a wild fervor that had in it somewhat of madness. The 
few hours I would at intervals pass with her at the se- 
cluded little bower of a home where she dwelt with her 
mother and one aged domestic, were hours of rapture, 
worth risking life itself to win. She was happy — very 
happy in my love — and easily imposed upon by the story 
of a relentless father who had opposed our union, but 
whose death one day would leave me free to claim her as 
my wife in the face of all the world. She was my wife — 
so she imagined — and in her great love for me, she was 
content. Need I say it was not my father’s death for 
which I waited ? I dared to look upon the lily-like Pau- 
line and anticipate the day when, possessed of all her 
wealth, I should set my rose of beauty in her vacant place. 

“ Meanwhile, Manuel was growing arrogant. He knew 
the power he jiossessed in the secret which he held, and, 
forgetting his position as my paid tool and slave, he began 
22 * 


258 


MY ROSES. 


to ask for extra moneys and indulgences. In a careless 
and indulgent way, I for some time gratified him by grant- 
ing his requests ; but at length, emboldened by my kind- 
ness, he made a heavy demand, which I not only refused 
to grant, but threatened him with punishment. I then sent 
him with a message to Coralie, bidding him remain until 
she wished him to return, and cautioning him to remember 
his position in future. 

“ Two days after, he cam.e with a hurried message from 
Coralie — our child wsls sleeping oiTher bosom — I must 
come ! He left her early in the morning, and he reached 
me about noon — but his horse died soon after his arrival, 
killed by hard riding. Again my courier urged his ex- 
travagant demand. In my excited state, scarce know- 
ing what I did, I struck him a violent blow across the face. 
He staggered back, and, with a sullen and cowed expres- 
sion, left my presence. Shortly after, however, I went to 
seek him. I had, some time previous, had Ooralie’s min- 
iature painted, and also my own. These pictures I sent to a 
jeweller in New Orleans, had them placed together in a me- 
dallion, the inscriptions dated on the day when I thought it 
probable I would present it to her. This was my opportuni- 
ty : I would send Manuel to announce my coming. I hastily 
wrote a note — that torn and time-worn letter which you 
read together, my children — made a small package of the 
note and the medallion, and sought Manuel. I gave it into 
his hands, ordered him to take the fleetest horse in my sta- 
bles and return to Coralie at once, saying to her that I would 
take the New Orleans packet, which passed an hour or two 
hence, and be there soon after his arrival. I then left the 
house. My excitement knew no bounds. It was the first 
of June, the day on which you, my Henriette, completed 
your second year, and Pauline was busy with her prepara- 
tions for a little fete in honor of your natal day. She had 


MY ROSES. 


259 


summoned me to be present ; but how was I, the father of 
another child born that day, to enter upon these rejoicings 
on the birthday of hers ? All my coolness, all my fore- 
thought, all 'command of myself seemed to have utterly 
'forsaken me. My wild love for Coralie, and my knowledge 
of her sufferings — my remorse when I thought upon Paul- 
ine, and upon you, my innocent Henriette — drove me to 
the verge of distraction. I had no well-defined thought, 
save that I must go to Coralie, and that I dared not meet 
Pauline. I rushed from the house out into the fields, and 
paced for hours the greensward, under a grove of live- 
oaks near the levee. I was chafing with impatience — the 
steamer was much later than usual. At last she came in 
sight; I hailed her, and went on board, seeing no one, tell- 
ing no one of my proposed absence. It was midnight when 
we reached Baton Rouge — past that time when I arrived 
at the embowered entrance of Coralie’s dwelling. I knocked, 
and after repeating ray knock more loudly several times, 
the door was opened by the mother. She appeared to have 
just risen from sleep, and placed her finger on her lip as I 
uttered my hurried inquiries for Coralie, saying, ‘ Hush I 
hush ! my son, she is sleeping now ; do not awake her. She 
and the sweet babe have been sleeping for more than an 
hour ; and I, too, being so fatigued, lay down upon the 
sofa there, and fell off into a doze. AVill you have some 
supper ? You may go in when she awakes, but you must 
not disturb her at present ; she will not sleep much longer ; 
it is nearly nine o’clock now.’ 

“ ‘Nearly nine!’ I exclaimed. 'Ma chlre maman^ you 
have overslept yourself — it is past midnight.’ 

“ She looked at me with a strange, vacant stare ; indeed, 
she seemed only partially aroused, even yet. ‘ Stand aside, 
madame m^re’ I said ; ‘ I cannot wait until you are prop- 
erly awake. I must see my wife and child.’ I tried the 


260 


MY ROSES. 


chamber door as I spoke; it was locked on the inside! 
Remembering that out on the opposite side a wide bay- 
window opened to the ground, I ran out, and found it open. 
I entered ; the room was in great disorder, but silent, A 
light which had been burning on the dressing-table, flared up 
a moment as I threw the sash more widely open, flickered, 
fell, and went out in darkness. I returned to the other 
room for a fresh light, procured it, and came back imme- 
diately. The curtains were drawn about the bed. I set 
down the lamp, and carefully unclosed the veils which were 
wont to guard my sleeping rose. Great God of heaven ! 
the bed was tenantless — Coralie, nor her babe, was there! 

“It is useless to tell you of the scene which followed. I 
raved at first, like any madman. Coralie was not to be 
found ; but on her pillow lay the half of that note which 
I had sent her, wrapped around her own picture, which 
had been rudely broken from mine! No word — no sign 
beside! Next day I searched for her in vain. I went 
everywhere about the town — I instituted search in every 
imaginable way that I dared do and not expose myself. 
I found no clue; there was literally nothing — even ‘no 
loop to hang a hope upon.’ I was bewildered — mystified 
— maddened. The poor mother was heart-broken. The 
one domestic, who slept in another part of the house, knew 
nothing — had heard or seen nothing. Manuel was no- 
where about the place. ' He had come (the mother informed 
me) late in the evening, and delivered the package to Cor- 
alie — said he had been commanded by me to return imme- 
diately — and rode away again, not even pausing to refresh 
himself or his horse, which was panting, and streaked with 
dust and foam. After his departure the mother had gone 
out to attend to some domestic arrangements, and, in prob- 
ably half an hour, just as it was growing dusk, coming into 
the adjoining room, imagined she heard voices in Coralie’s 


MY ROSES. 


261 


chamber. Supposing that some neighbor had gone in, she 
opened the door. Coralie was there alone, and appeared 
to have almost fainted away. The mother hastened for- 
ward. 

‘ “‘It is nothing — nothing — give me some water, mo- 
ther,’ she said, faintly. The mother gave it, from a pit- 
cher that stood near. The sufferer took a small portion, 
and turned away her face, as though she wished to sleep. 

‘ I had made her tea,’ continued the poor woman, choking 
with her sobs, ‘ and I took it in immediately ; but she was 
asleep: at least I thought so. Feeling thirsty, I took up 
the little pitcher of water and drained it dry. It struck 
me, after I had swallowed the draught, that it was no 
wonder my daughter drank but little ; for it w'as not fresh, 
and had a slightly disagreeable taste — bitter like. After 
drinking it I took a cup of tea and a roll ; then shortly 
I became very sleepy. Coralie and her babe were both 
sleeping — at least I think so. I put a light on the dress- 
ing-bureau, almost closed her chamber door, and lay down 
on the sofa there, just outside of it. I thought I could 
hear her if she stirred; but I knew no more until awak- 
ened by your knocking. I was so fearful you would 
awaken her. Oh, my child ! my lost, lost child ! ’ This 
story she would repeat over and over again, and then fall 
into fits of violent weeping and agitation.” 

Here my father’s voice grew weaker and more husky ; 
it was only with great effort that he could articulate so 
as to be understood. He motioned that Sigismond should 
lay him back again upon the pillows. It was done ; and 
I again moistened his lips with the stimulant. He paused 
for a minute or two, in the endeavor, I thought, to rally 
his sinking energies, the deep stillness broken only by the 
shivering sobs of my sister Coralie. Tears dropped slowly 
over my face; but I wept in silence, -my heart aching, in 


262 


MY ROSES. 


its agony of impatience, for the remainder of my father’s 
sad story. At last, in a voice so low that I was obliged to 
bend over him to catch the smothered sounds, he resumed : 
“A little more — I must say it now. Soon there will be 
silence — silence forever more.” Then followed in broken 
sentences the remainder of his narrative, of which this is 
the substance : 

“ It was on the second day after Coralie’s disappearance. 
I had returned from my weary search, worn and dispir- 
ited, when a common-looking countryman rode up to the 
gate, and demanded ‘ whether Monsieur de Hauterive was 
there?’ I replied that I was the man. ‘Then,’ said he, 
‘ I ’ve a message for you, sir. I was coming along the road 
to town about a mile back, when a mulatto fellow, riding 
a fiery bay mare, overtook me. He directed me how to 
find this house, and if I found you, to say that “ the ma- 
dame, your wife, is dead, and you are wanted at home.” 
He said too, “Tell him there’s no use now hunting after 
what ’s at the bottom of the big river over yonder, and 
ask him if I ’ve paid him that little account I owe him ?” ’ 

“ ‘ Describe that man to me,’ I gasped ; for a light 
flashed over me in an instant. He did so. It was Man- 
uel ! I saw it all : the treacherous villain had revenged 
himself by betraying me to Coralie. Heaven knows what 
he told her; the bare truth was sufficiently damning. 
.Doubtless she, in a moment of frenzy, had drowned herself 
and child — and he knew it. This was my thought then, 
though I know now, from Madame Lesueur’s story, that 
my Coralie was guiltless of the crime of suicide. With 
her death I alone am to blame — with that of her mother 
also, perhaps ; for she died broken-hearted within a year. 
But I wander. The man rode away, and I began to think 
over the words of Manuel’s message : ‘ The madame, your 
wife, is dead, and you are wanted at home.’ Home f my 


MY BOSES. 


263 


wife f could it be Pauline ? Strange that at first I had 
not once thought of Pauline ! I supposed he had meant 
Coralie, who he knew was drowned. But ‘you are wanted 
at home' gave a new direction to my thoughts. Fortu- 
nately a steamer was advertised to leave in an hour. By 
ten o’clock that night I stood at the door of Pauline’s 
chamber ; she lay within, sleeping her last sleep. 

“ ‘ When Manuel was here, on the day of the children’s 
party,’ (this was the account given by your nurse, my Hen- 
riette,) ‘ he said he had somethin’ special to say to Madame 
Pauline ; an’ he went down into the garden, sir, where she 
was cuttin’ of the flowers for the festoons. Everything was 
ready except fixin’ of the fresh roses in the wreaths. She 
had got a bushel-basketful a’ready, an’ Mima and me was 
fixin ’em in. Bime-by Manuel come back, got on his horse, 
an’ rid off ; and soon after that Madame Pauline, she come 
from the garden too, an’ lookin’ for all the world like as 
if she’d seed a ghost. “Is you sick, mistus?” I said; for 
I never seen her look so before. As she went by me, so 
white and still like, she said, “Attend to the children, 
nurse, until I come;” and then she went straight up to her 
room, and shut the door, an’ never come out any more, sir. 
We waited an’ waited, an’ then I went an’ knocked at her 
door, and got no answer. When the neighbor children 
come, we let ’em enjoy all the nice things she had fixed so 
proper for ’em ; an’, sir, when dark come on, an’ little missy 
cried for her mamma, I jist could n’t stand it no longer, 
sir. I got another key from Cely, unlocked her door, an’ 
fore God, sir, thar she lay on her own white bed — dead ! 
I reckon, sir, it must ha’ been a heart-disease — it took her 
off so still and sudden, poor, dear lady! An’yow, sir — 
we just tore this place up and down, and couldn’t find you 
nowhar. Bless God 1 you ’s come at las’! ’ 

“There she lay before me — the lily -like Pauline! 


264 


MY KOSES. 


Manuel bad done his work swiftly and surely — silently too, 
for the ‘ dead tell no tales/ I had set him the. example of 
treachery and falsehood, and my lessons had recoiled upon 
my own head with a stunning force. My crime had met 
with swift and terrible retribution, and I could but confess 
that my punishment was just. I had often looked upon 
the fairy, fragile figure of my wife, and dared to think, 
‘ One day she will fade from earth like a morning flower ; 
then I shall be free to claim before the world my hidden 
rose of beauty. Pauline was even now asleep ; but where 
was my radiant rose of love also ? Sleeping too — gone — 
lost to me forever more! 

“ After I had examined closely all the apartments of my 
wife, I found no token by which I could infer that she her- 
self had called down upon her own head the icy crown of 
death. Evidently that fatal discovery of my infidelity, 
treachery, and wrong had dealt the blow. She was a del- 
icate creature physically; but she possessed a deep, devoted, 
generous nature, and she had loved me with her whole soul. 
I felt myself her murderer. I buried her, then returned 
to search for Coralie. It was vain — all vain. I never 
even heard of Manuel — never once in all those eighteen 
lonely, desolate, and despairing years. Great God 1 what 
ages of ceaseless misery and remorse those weary, weary, 
lingering years have been I They have been to me the sting 
of the ‘ worm that never dies.’ 

“ I removed to New Orleans. Here for years I have 
buried myself in business ; each year, however, becoming 
feeble, aged, and worn — less able to combat the fierce throes 
with which conscience assails me. Every fatal ‘first of 
June’ has been to me a step by which I have descended, 
lower and lower, to my death. Eeckless and wayward as 
my youth has been, I could not plunge into the gross for- 
getfulness of intemperance; but I have sought relief for 


MY HOSES. 


265 


years in the perishable nepenthe of the opium-draught. 
Can you wonder, my daughter, after all that I have said, 
that I should so long shrink from making you my confi- 
dante and companion? You were the child of Pauline, and, 
as such, an ever-present, poignant reproach to me. Can 
you wonder, either, that I shrank from allowing the skill 
and the clear-seeing, honest eyes of Eugene Dupont to 
search my mental with my physical disease? It is now 
too late — dread words for me — too late! ” 

The voice had sunk to a low, low murmur ere he paused, 
utterly exhausted with the exertion of speaking so long. 
I hung over his pillow to catch the slightest whisper, and 
ere he ceased I could scarcely distinguish the words. He 
said to me, gaspingly, Kiss me — my child — forgive. 
Pray — for me.” Then, placing my right hand in that of 
Sigismond, and my left in that of Coralie, he again mur- 
mured, “Pray!” I pressed my lips to his; Coralie did the 
same ; then we knelt by his bedside. Eugene knelt at the 
foot of the couch, alone. I poured forth my whole sad 
soul in an audible prayer for this parting spirit — and for 
ourselves, stricken and subdued. Then there was a silence, 
deep and solemn, for many minutes. The “silver cord 
was loosed ; the golden bowl was broken.” Another hu- 
man soul stood before its Judge. 

Eugene was the first to speak. Rising, he came forward, 
and laying his hand upon my father’s forehead — so pain- 
fully and deeply lined — he said, solemnly, “He is gone. 
Dleu le vent ainsi ! ” I looked up through blinding tears 
upon the face of the dead, and added, ^^Dieu veuille avoir 
son dme.'” 

Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of heavy 
sobbing. I looked around, and saw, crouching in an ob- 
scure corner, his dark face buried in his hands, the faith- 
ful old servitor, Thomas. It was a sad, sad sight — the 
23 


266 


MY ROSES. 


death of a man who had wronged and betrayed the trust- 
ing hearts of those who loved him best ; we all felt it so, 
and wept silently. 

‘^M'amourf^* whispered Sigismond, “my duties commence 
now. You and Coral ie must retire. Eugene and I, with 
the servants, will attend to everything. Come, my darling ; 
you are completely worn down ; I must insist upon taking 
you away.” 

I gave him my hand, and whispering, “ Come, my sis- 
ter,” Coralie drew her arm about my waist, and they led 
me to my chamber. 

“ Be sure to rest, both of you — even if you cannot sleep,” 
said Eugene, as we bade “ good night.” But it was no 
longer night ; for as we passed out upon the gallery, the 
far orient was brightening into the clear rose -flush of 
early morning. 


0 


CHAPTER XX. 


FINALE. 

Like one who, doomed o’er distant seas 
His weary path to measure. 

Who, home at last, with favoring breeze, 

Safe brings the far-sought treasure — 

Like him, this heart, through many a track 
Of toil and sorrow straying. 

Its loves, its hopes, brought safely back, 

Its toil and grief repaying. 

Song. 

One gazed upon her till his very life 

Was dedicate to that idolatry 

With which young Love makes offering of itself. 

The morning blush was lighted up by hope — 

The hope of meeting her ; the noontide hours 
Were counted for her sake; upon the rose 
He only saw the color of her cheek — 

He watched the midnight stars until they wore 

Her beauty’s likeness 

And days passed on. It was an eve in June. 

Landoh. 

I MUST turn over a broad leaf in this life-history of 
mine — the leaf of a year. After the death of my 
father, and the intense excitement of that eventful night 
recorded in the last chapter, the long tension of my strained 
energies gave way, and I sank into a protracted and dan- 
gerous illness. My wounds aggravated the disease — per- 
chance were its originators ; and the struggle between the 
full tide of buoyant life in my veins and the dread Angel of 

267 


268 


MY KOffES. 


Pain was prolonged, and for some time doubtful. Weeks 
passed away, and the dart of death hung poised, ready 
to strike, above my heart. For weeks I lay withering 
in fever’s “ house of unquenchable fire,” prone at the feet 
of that 

“ Sleepless and deadly Dolores, 

Our Lady of Pain.” 


When the first of July arrived, (the day appointed by 
my father for my wedding,) I lay wholly unconscious of 
time, or love, or joy — seeing not the sad, anxious eyes of 
Sigismond, which followed every glance of mine, in the 
vain hope of catching one ray of recognizing love — hear- 
ing not the stified sobs of my sister Coralie, as she hung 
over me in that long agony of doubt and fear — noting not 
the tall figure in the sable robes of a Sister of Mercy, who, 
night after night, watched and waited by my side, antici- 
pating every wish, and sorrowing over me as a mother 
might over her suffering child. At last — thanks to the 
free, vigorous training of my early years, which had given 
me what less than half our young ladies are possessed of 
(i. e. a “ constiti^tion ”) — the long and dubious battle was 
ended. Youth and life were victorious, and I began slowly 
to convalesce. Much — very much, however, was due to 
the judicious treatment and tender nursing of my “good 
genius,” and my three self-appointed guardians, Coralie, 
Eugene, and the tall, beautiful woman, clad in serge, and 
wearing the cross and veil of the Soeiete de Sceurs, 

The summer months had passed ere I was able to leave 
my room ; but just so soon as I was pronounced strong 
enough to bear the fatigue of travel, we set forth upon our 
journeyings — long contemplated, long delayed. It was 
decided, “ in solemn conclave,” that I was, as yet, too much 
of an invalid to dispense with the regular services of my 


MY E0SE8. 


269 


physician, and, consequently, Eugene Dupont (very greatly 
to his own satisfaction, I thought) accompanied us. I 
cannot say, however, that he confined his attentions entirely 
to the interesting “convalescent” during the easy and most 
delightful wanderings of those two pleasant autumn months ; 
au contraire, a stranger might have supposed that it was 
ma belle soeurette who was the invalid, as the “ devotions ” 
of our young friend to her were both assiduous and unre- 
mitting. How happy we were — that is to say, Sigismond 
and I — to see Eugene’s devotion to our lovely sister, and 
to note how, day by day, he was winning his way into that 
fresh young heart, stealing into the place once occupied by 
her ci-devant boy-lover. Monsieur Henri d’Herbelot. It 
was all exactly right ; Eugene was in every way worthy 
of Coralie : he was our known and tried friend ; he had 
been called upon by circumstances to take a position in 
our family in a strange crisis of our affairs ; he possessed 
our confidence, and was worthy of it ; and he had entered 
into close family relations with us precisely at the proper 
time to assume the throne and sceptre which young Mon- 
sieur d’Herbelot was so suddenly compelled to abdicate. 
True it is that Coralie had at first many misgivings as to 
her reception in our “select circles,” many self-questionings 
as to whether she ought to accept the love of a noble man 
like Eugene Dupont, considering her birth and former 
associations. But the kind, easy, respectable world is usual- 
ly generous toward a person combining in herself beauty, 
wealth, and position; consequently the “leaders of society” 
did not deem it the proper policy to inquire closely into 
her antecedents. It saw her young, beautiful, fascinating, 
cultivated, and hien riche ; therefore the pleasant and polite 
“exclusives” asked no intrusive questions, but received 
her with open arms. As for Eugene, I think Coralie’s 
antecedents never troubled his equanimity in the least ; 

28 * 


270 


MY ROSES. 


and after a time he won her to his belief that it was neither 
sin nor shame to her^ in that her beautiful young mother 
was deceived by a false ceremony — betrayed by that which 
wore the semblance of truth. The sin and the shame 
rested not on the deceived — she who had paid the penalty 
of another’s cruel wrong with her life — but on the deceiver ; 
and the betrayer was my father as well as Coralie’s. Who, 
then, made us to differ ” ? 

One day during my convalescence, when my “ good ge- 
nius” and my sweet sister were both beside me, I had them 
bring together all those pictures which had so distracted 
me during that fierce fortnight in June. There was the 
diamond-circled boy-face which I had taken for Sigismond 
on the first of June, the lovely face of Coralie which hung 
in Moisinett’s gallery, the broken medallion with that 
striking countenance so much resembling my own, and my 
father’s portrait, now unveiled, hanging on the opposite 
wall. In examining them all together, comparing each 
with each, and turning them into different lights, I caught 
the ignis fatum which had so harassed and eluded me here- 
tofore. It was simply that varying, haunting, elfish sprite 
which you see at times and then lose completely — which 
a stranger sometimes recognizes at once,' while you cannot 
discover it at all ; that tantalizing “will-o’-the-wisp,” called, 
in common parlance, the family favor 

It was during this time of luxurious rest, too, that I 
endeavored to clear up something of the mystery which 
surrounded my late reine regnante, Marguerite. Rare, 
reine Marguerite, I saw she was; but of her history I 
could discover nothing. Coralie had an intuitive belief 
that this queenly creature was a wronged and deserted 
woman ; yet Marguerite never even so much as gave her 
name to any one. There was a small volume of Mrs. 
Norton’s poems among my sister’s books, in which Mar- 


MY ROSES. 


271 


guerite had written this quotation — in itself “ full of love 
and full of heart-break”: “Of all the sad things in this 
world, I think the saddest is the leaf that tells what love 
was meant to he — and the turning of the leaf, to tell what 
love has been. All blossoms — then all ashes! Nothing 
is so beautiful as the temple love builds, nothing so miser- 
able as the service of that temple.” She was (as Coralie 
informed me) an accomplished musician. In the dusk of 
evening she would sweep the chords of her guitar, and, if 
alone, always sang with the sweetest, subtlest pathos, these 
simple words : 

“The bright day is fled ; 

And the eve is flying 
O’er the mountain’s head; 

And winged Faith is dead. 

And Hope is dying. 

“ She who loved you so 
Is a pale ruin ; 

And on her maiden brow 
And in her eyes doth show 
What comes of wooing ! ” 

Love had been to her life’s apples of Sodom. AVith all 
the eager abandon of her imperious, passionate nature, she 
had bitten that Dead Sea fruit to the core, and its bitter- 
ness and ashes had tainted all her after-life. I would lie 
there, with tear-dimmed eyes gazing upon her picture, and 
marvel why this should be ? Why should she, a being formed 
wholly for light and love, be allowed in youth to sink into 
the dreary, deadly lovelessness of a life whose shades are 
full of horror, and whose clearest light is ne des tenebrdsf 
Why should there now be nothing left in life for the warm, 
luxury-loving lips to feed upon, save those bitter, burning 

“ Dead fruits of the fugitive years ; 

Some stained as with wine, and made bloody. 

And some as with tears ? ” 


272 


MY ROSES. 


“Ah, God! that Fate, with flower-sweet finger-tips, 

Should crush this fruit of death upon such lips ! ” 

But it was even so. I conned it over as a child might bend 
his. little brain to some incomprehensible lesson ; I went 
over the letters line by line, but I never found the mean- 
ing. And yet I was taught by it sympathy and leniency 
to other souls — a sweet sympathy, and a sweeter charity. 
I learned from it that although we may fail to understand 
why, we all, in this life, eat together our apples of Sodom. 
The dark days come to us all; ’t is sorrow and suffering 
makes the world akin. Each one of us sits under the 
shadows. The “.clouds return after the rain,” the rainbow 
fades to a dim segment : it is nothing to us in our darkness 
that the sunshine is somewhere ; it falls not then upon our 
dial. There will come a day, no doubt, when all these 
things will be plain to us ; when we shall see “ light in God’s 
light clearly.” But that will be when we have done with 
earth and its apples of Sodom. Meanwhile I say to my- 
self, “Let me never forget that I am simply ‘a woman 
among women, not a judge or an executioner. Let me ever 
remember this, and that 

“ If we knew the silent story 

Quivering through the heart of pain. 

Would our womanhood dare doom them 
Back to haunts of vice and shame ? 

Life has many a tangled crossing, 

Joy has many a break of woe; 

And the cheeks, tear-washed, are whitest; 

This the blessed angels know. 

“ Let us reach within our bosoms 
For the key to human lives; 

And, with love to erring nature. 

Cherish good that still survives. 


MY ROSES. 


273 


So that when our own freed spirits 
Soar to realms of light again, 

We may say, “ Our Father judge us 
As we judged our fello w-men.''^ 

In making up the brief finale of this little history, I must 
not forget to mention that one day during my convales- 
cence, when we were talking over the strange days of that 
eventful June — and when I knew Monsieur Sauvoll4e to 
be quite too good-natured to reproach me — I told him 
of my inconstancy to him, and how wildly, for a brief 
period, I had wished to be a real Henri d’Herbelot, that I 
might marry Coralie ! He laughed cordially, and said, in his 
own peculiar, grave-gay manner, “ You are- an odd woman, 
fleur-de-lis. But I cannot say I love you less for being a 
trifle exceptional. I will not dispute your good taste in 
wishing to make a wife of belle Coralie during my absence ; 
but of one thing I must assure you : had you been absent, I 
should never once have dreamed of making a wife of Eu- 
gene ! ” I am not sure but he had the laugh against me, 
after all. 

No romance-reader can avoid the conviction that, had I 
been a heroine,” I would now, of necessity, have given 
myself up to the tortures of despondency, and through long 
years have committed Sigismond and myself to a purgato- 
rial state of existence, avowing that some dreadful and 
altogether insuperable barrier to our union lay between us. 
In the third volume of our mutual “heroics,” it would be 
accidentally discovered that this insurmountable barrier 
was purely an imaginary one, that I deemed he must cease 
to love me on account of my father’s errors, that he must 
consider my name as resting under a stigma; therefore 
^^heroine-ieally ” I had freed him from his engagement, 
bade him spasmodically to “Go — and forget,” resigning 
myself thenceforth to melancholy misery in the most ap- 


274 


MY ROSES. 


proved and orthodox style imaginable. I am sorry enough to 
be obliged to disappoint you in this, the exalted and roman- 
tic course which doubtless ought to have been pursued 
under the circumstances. I regret to be compelled to disen- 
chant you by confessing that I was no “heroine,” but merely 
a rather matter-of-fact, practical young woman, who was 
not at all capable of such heroic deeds. I loved my noble- 
hearted lover well enough to trmt him, and not one doubt 
of his continued affection and respect for me ever crossed 
my mind. I could not have wronged him by such a doubt. 
And thus it came to pass that all things went on as usual, 
smoothly, safely, and steadily, between us ; we loved each 
other tenderly, dearly, devotedly, and we were sufficiently 
commonplace to endeavor to continue our prospect of 
peace and love, and to greatly rejoice therein day by day. 
Of course, however, I lost — actually threw away indeed — 
my only opportunity of ever becoming a “ heroine,” and 
making myself and those I loved best, respectably and 
romantically miserable! I deplore the necessity which 
compels me to this confession ; but “ Truth is mighty, and 
must prevail ! ” 

It was again the evening of the first of June ; this the 
June of 1853. Lights blazed throughout the old mansion- 
house — the home of my father ; but he lay sleeping in a 
narrow house, cold, silent, and dark. The great agony 
which the “first of June” was wont to bring could come 
to him no more. Peace — peace to the perturbed spirit I 
Rest — rest to the troubled soul! 

On this balmy summer evening, when the lights shone 
softly through the lofty rooms, when the rich perfumes of 
flowers and richer strains of music rose from the hall 
below, when through the spacious drawing-room there 
surged a stream of silken robes, and the glitter of diamonds 


MY ROSES. 


275 


flashed up like foam upon the wave, when without there 
was a rushing to and fro of wheels, and within the soft 
murmur of modulated voices and cheery laughter, ma helle 
smur and myself stood side by side, in our own pleasant 
chamber, with bridal-veils falling to the floor, and coronals 
of the scented orange-bloom about our brows. The snowy 
silken robes were all adjusted, the flowers all properly dis- 
posed, the finishing touches given by deft-handed maids — 
there was nothing more to do ; we stood there hand-in-hand 
and looked into each other’s eyes. Happy, lustrous, love- 
lit eyes were they ! 

“Could the ladies admit a visitor for a few moments?” 
we heard a voice inquiring of Ninette, who had just opened 
the door. 

“ Can you see a lady, mademoiselle ? ” asked Ninon, as 
she threw open the door and disclosed to our view a tall 
and stately figure, clad in robes of sable serge, and wearing 
the veil and mantle of a sister of the Order of Mercy. 

“ You are welcome ; walk, in, madam,” I said, as I left 
the side of Coralie and advanced toward the stranger. She 
met me in the middle of the room, lifted the thick veil, 
and disclosed the darkly-splendid eyes and beautiful face 
of Marguerite. Coralie sank upon her bosom; “The 
Roses ” had met once more ! But what a contrast ! The 
white and shining robes of the one, with her bridal crown 
and draperies of richest lace, lay mingling with the coarse 
black mantle and heavy sable veil of the other ; the face 
of one so radiantly fair and beaming, the countenance of 
the other so dark, so pale, and yet so imperial in its beauty 
still ! And how unlike these same “ Roses ” when I first 
met them — the one in her bright rose-bloom, the other in 
her grave, half-mourning robes of gray ! Verily a change 
had passed upon the life-dream of each, and each was 
higher, holier, happier on this day than on that 


276 


MY ROSES. 


Perhaps Marguerite divined my thpught at the moment; 
for, closing her arras round my bride-sister, she said, turn- 
ing toward me, “Yes, we are happier now — both of us: 
let us hope it is because we are better. And to whom do 
we owe this blessed change? To you, mademoiselle; under 
Heaven, to you alone f A woman, you have redeemed your 
sister-woman. It is only woman who can do this : there- 
fore would to God there were more women in the world 
who could dare follow your example ! How many — ah ! 
how many, even such as I, might be saved ! might be a 
crown of glory to your brows in God’s great hereafter! 
Tell them what you have done : ask them to come over 
and help us. We need their help, and God’s help; ask 
them if they will send the one and pray for the other. I 
have heard that you are both to be married to-night — that 
you leave this city to-morrow: it is well. The pestilence 
has already made its appearance ; our hospitals are full of 
the fever-stricken. I rejoice that you, and those you love, 
will be far away.” 

“ ATais vous, ma cMre Marguerite; you will not remain ?” 
uttered Coralie, raising her bright head from its sombre 
resting-place. 

“Yes, my sweet one; the humble Sister of Mercy re- 
mains here. It is our province to watch beside the sick, 
to minister to the plague-stricken, to comfort the dying. 
The pestilence has no terrors for me : even if it had, my 
path of duty lies directly through it, and therein must my 
footsteps be found. There is One who has said, ‘ Behold, 
I come quickly!’ May He make that promise good to 
me. 

Tears filled our eyes — the change in her was so great. 
It was a happy change, too ; and yet we wept. She no- 
ticed it ; her own eyes grew lustrous with shining drops, 
and taking a hand of each, she said, in a tremulous voice, 


MY ROSES. 


277 


‘‘You weep — and/or me! I thank you for it; but happy 
brides must not weep. I heard that you were going to- 
morrow, and could not resist the temptation to come and 
give you my poor blessing, and fold Coralie to my bosom 
once more in life. Madame Lesueur, who will shortly leave 
this place for a secluded country home, determined to lead 
a new life henceforth, desired me to say to you that if her 
humble and constant prayers for the happiness of both 
can avail aught, then you will be blessed indeed. And now 
my time is up. They are waiting for you : I must say 
farewell. Hasten your departure from this plague-stricken 
city, and do not return until late: when the snows come — 
the frost, which is a talisman to stay the pestilence — 
then you, pure and beautiful as they, may come also. 
When you return, come to the old Cemetery, and ask for 
Marguerite. The marble will answer, and tell you where 
she lies ! For the last time, adieu ! Dieu vous garde ton- 
jours; and forget not Marguerite ! ” She wrung our hands, 
kissed the brow of each, and was gone — like a shadow of 
the night. 

What yet remains unsaid ? But little. When we re- 
turned from a long bridal tour through Europe and the 
Orient, the fearful pestilence which swept our Southern sea- 
board in 1853 had passed away ; the sunny skies of Cuba 
now (1860) bend like a benison over our happy homes ; 
Coralie’s children and mine frolic together under the 
orange-trees ; and we are happy — very happy in our lives 
of loveliness and love. Seven years have passed over us 
like a pleasant dream, and Time has touched us lightly. 
Last winter, when we visited the Crescent City, we strolled, 
one serene Sabbath evening, hand in hand, through the 
old Catholic Cemetery. Both Coralie Dupont and her 
24 


278 


MY ROSES. 


henceforth lifelong lover, “Henri,” (she calls me “Henri” 
still,) had seen it before; but never, since we placed it 
there, had the sunlight seemed to linger so lovingly over 
the fair white monument and the words : 


MARGUERITE, 

Sister of the Order op Mercy. 
September 25th, 1853. 
Fortiter, Fideliter, 

Feliciter. 


THE END, 


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